


Heated

by Gem_Gem, KittieHill



Series: Kittie And Gem Stories [14]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angry John, Bus Travel, Coming In Pants, Hard drive with story on broken, Hot, I'm Bad At Titles, M/M, On Hiatus, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Premature Ejaculation, Sherlock is a Brat, Story on Hiatus, Tags Are Hard, Tags Contain Spoilers, Tags May Change, WIP, ice lolly, irritated John, spontaneous ejaculation, vibrations
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-29
Updated: 2017-07-23
Packaged: 2018-09-20 17:43:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9502871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gem_Gem/pseuds/Gem_Gem, https://archiveofourown.org/users/KittieHill/pseuds/KittieHill
Summary: He gaped, fixatedly, as he followed the shape of Sherlock's spine and took in the state of his twitching stomach, "Sherlock... Sherlock stop that right now," was the first thing out of his mouth as he stared...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Kittie and I wrote this a while ago. More specifically, September 2015 - And it's still not finished!
> 
> We both love this story immensely and it's not been posted until now because of me and my rubbish editing skills!  
> I've spent so much time on it, but lack of creativity and inspiration has pushed it back over and over again. Until now!
> 
> Recently [Jesstabitmad](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Jesstabitmad/pseuds/Jesstabitmad) came to us wanting Kittie and I to write something to cheer her up, and we agreed that this might do just that!  
> It's not exactly the prompt you wanted lovely, but Kittie and I are struggling a lot recently with horrible Real Life issues, and so it was easier for us to use a story we have already.
> 
> Let us know if you like it! All of you!  
> Kittie and I could do the prompt, but writing is getting a bit difficult when work and life and rubbish things get in the way!
> 
> We both love you all so much! <3
> 
> Any mistakes are mine and I do not mind if you point them out to me or Kittie. In fact, we'd be very grateful. No matter how many times you read over something, there is always something that you miss. _There's always something!_.

London was stifling under a cloudless sky; a freak heat wave had enveloped the city in the early hours of the morning and refused to break, bringing absolute misery for those trapped in the endless cycle of commuting and work. John, because of this, had decided to avoid the sticky, packed tube in favour of walking the distance back to the flat instead, thinking that he would at least get some reprieve. 

He had been wrong 

John was sure that his shoes were melting into the shimmering pavement as he strode at a somewhat brisk pace, weaving in and out of the people that lingered on the streets whom were fanning their sweaty faces and knocking back beaded bottles of cold water, trying to keep cool however they could. John envied them automatically as he felt the underarms of his blue work shirt becoming saturated in sweat. Never a good look when single and looking for a date. John wheezed with the blistering heat and desperately tried to keep within the shadows of buildings, street lamps, cars, and even other people; huddling into any and all shade for a few brief seconds of cooler air, before he pushed on to his destination. 

Abruptly, unable to ignore the pull, he decided to pop into Tesco, and rushed to stand listlessly at an open fridge, leaning heavily against the plastic transparent door. He sighed in blessed relief as the simulated cooling air breezed across his face and flowed down the unbuttoned V of his shirt, and after another three minutes of blissed wallowing finally grabbed a bottle of milk. They always needed more milk. John was sure Sherlock had been doing something with the milk. At the last minute, John also took a loaf of bread, before he paid and walked the remaining few streets to Baker Street, being both lazy in his walking but awkwardly quick, having even more incentive to get home as he carried the warming milk against his thigh. 

The sudden heat wave was nothing compared to the weather he had endured whilst in Afghanistan, but it was thick and clogging with car fumes, the heat highly concentrated thanks to the surrounding metal and brick buildings wedged within every inch of space along rows and rows of streets, and the scalding concrete at his feet. The heat was unbearable in ways the heat in Afghanistan had not been. The doctor also found that he had become quite acclimatised to the dreary London cold and drizzle, and so the scorching day was somewhat unwanted; John preferred warming up rather than cooling down, and the thought of another week toing and froing from work in the current temperature made him groan aloud in frustration. He had already had enough of the sea of sun burned British men and woman on his way back. Whenever there was even just a hint of sun the British public were out, semi-nude, and drinking in beer gardens or setting themselves on fire at poorly handled BBQ’s. John was glad he no longer worked in trauma or A&E as he _always_ ended up dealing with that one prick who had somehow managed to skewer himself on a BBQ fork. 

John sniggered to himself ruefully with a shake of his head as he stopped and stepped up to the flat, passing the bag in his left hand to his right as he unlocked the door and then skipped up the stairs. The door to the sitting room was widely open and John nudged it just a little more as he shuffled through, sighing with an annoyed scowl at the condensed air of the living room.  
The bag fell from his hand and thudded on the wooden floor as he turned to survey the room and was abruptly faced _(quite literally)_ with Sherlock’s bare arse. Sherlock was sprawled across the sofa cushions, his nude body clammy with sweat, and his front facing the back of the sofa sulkily. John was used to Sherlock’s nudity, used to seeing him wrapped in nothing but a sheet or his dressing gown, but there was always a barrier there; seeing Sherlock, naked as the day he was born, and draped over the sofa was unnerving and surprising, and honestly not something that John had wanted to see after a hard day of work. 

“Oh… You’re naked… That’s, yeah, why not… Do you not want to put something under your arse and…bits? Other people have to sit there you know,” John mumbled as he bent quickly and retrieved the Tesco bag from the ground, checking on the milk and grumpily eyeing the dent in the bottom. With a loud, put-upon sigh, he began to put things away with averted eyes, staring instead at _whatever_ it was that was crawling in the salad crisper. 

“I’m lying on my dressing gown,” Sherlock murmured without looking back at John, the dimples above his buttocks showing as he arched his back a little and hunched further into a petulant position, only to then immediately stretch out with a dramatic huff, throwing his arms up over his head. He breathed into the arm of the sofa for a moment and then glanced over his bare shoulder to eye John silently, and somehow accusingly, as if he was blaming John for the intense shift in the weather.

John ignored Sherlock’s look and his nudity as much as he could, but soon realised that Sherlock had the right sort of idea going by the horrendous, sticky temperature that saturated throughout the flat, and began to strip away his soggy shirt, hanging it carefully over the kitchen chair, and then unbuttoning his corduroy trousers, letting them fall to the floor. He tried not to be too self-conscious about the move. He had been half nude around Sherlock before, after all.

“I had an interesting day…” he tried as casually as he could muster whilst stripping in their kitchen, and picked up his trousers, pulling off his socks. He felt a hundred times cooler clad in only his white vest and Y-fronts, and he sighed happily.  
As he folded his work clothes onto the chair, he heard a noise which may have been Sherlock acknowledging him and faintly peered at him as he turned to look in the freezer to look for the ice lollies that he was sure he had put in months ago when Sherlock had suffered from horrid mouth ulcers. Although John remembered that at the time he had suggested that it was probably scurvy, due to the lack of food and sleep in Sherlock’s diet after one long and hellish case. 

He grinned when his hand curled around the chilled box of them, and bent to rummage more easily inside for one, tugging it out inelegantly. Shutting the freezer door with his knee, John ripped opened the wrapper eagerly and took one long lick of the deliciously cold iced fruit, shivering and humming in pleasure as it coated his tongue and rushed down his throat. Dropping his head back in delight, John savoured the chill for a little longer than he needed to, and then turned toward his naked friend. 

“…A really interesting case of severely infected tonsils,” John continued when he could find it in himself to talk again, lifting his head.

Sherlock was looking at him with an odd expression, and he twisted his bare torso to see John better. It seemed as though he was about to question John about something for a second, but then he closed his mouth, swallowed and gave John a somewhat distantly interested twitch of his eyebrow and mouth. His eyes remained on the lolly for a long stretch of time, longer than strictly necessary, before they flicked quickly up and down John’s entire body and settled on his face.

“Why interesting?” Sherlock murmured deeply after taking a breath, a flush blotting into existence across his chest and up the slope of his neck.

John walked to slump down into his chair, and sighed at the cool fabric against his overheated skin, “The kid showed all the classic signs of infection; sore throat, swollen glans, coughing, headache, temperature over 38C,” John explained between kitten licks of the iced treat. He normally didn’t shy away from the long, tedious medical jargon, as Sherlock would undoubtedly understand better than some actual doctors, but it was hot, too hot to go into tiresome, longwinded conversations with his brilliant flatmate, and so he kept it simple. “But, it was the colour of her tonsils that was the surprising part. They weren’t white spots like normal, but blue!”

John chuckled to himself in the silence that followed, and sucked the tip of the lolly into his mouth and chomped off the end with his teeth. The action pushed juice messily over his lips and he quickly licked at it as it fell on his chin, chasing a sticky dribble of it with his finger and pushing it onto his tongue. 

"Anyways, I sent her straight to the hospital to see the ENT specialist. He's going to owe me a beer for that one, I have no idea what it was but it was…it was gloriously disgusting," John laughed, crossing his legs and enjoying the slight breeze that came from somewhere unknown as it rushed up his upper thigh at the movement. "What have you done today?"

“…Nothingatall,” Sherlock replied in a jumbled rush and blinked with wide eyes, looking momentarily confused before he carried on. “There’s nothing to do. It’s too hot for even murderers and serial killers, it seems. Everything is perfectly, pathetically, piteously quiet. It’s horrendous. I was rather hoping the heat would drive someone mad, push them to butcher their family with a kitchen knife, or perhaps send someone into such heat delirium that they think everyone they meet is an alien, and therefore decide to go on a murderous rampage through London …but no such luck.” Sherlock licked his lips and cleared his throat, shifting and suddenly looking immensely awkward and self-conscious lying naked on the sofa with his bare backside on display and his best friend sitting in his pants not far away.

John huffed in long-suffering amusement and shrugged his shoulders, “Hm. Yeah. Shame that. It could have made an interestingly good blog post.” He placed the ice pop into his mouth and made a grotesque and rather filthy sucking noise as he attempted to drain the fruit juice into his mouth, and smirked to himself, nibbling up the sides to chip and grind off the flavour-sucked ice. “God. It’s too hot for proper food tonight. Shall we just have sandwiches or salad or something? I can’t really be arsed cooking, not in this heat, and I bet the takeaways will be manic,” John commented before frowning and looking over at Sherlock quizzically, noticing that the flush had now travelled both down Sherlock’s entire chest and up his neck, and jaw, spotting at his cheeks. “You alright?”

Sherlock nodded his head quickly, “Fine,” he said with a choked and husky tone, which he rid himself of with a sharp cough. “Fine. Just…hot--I hate today. It’s been so terribly loathsome and I dare say it’ll only get worse as the days go on...” Something seemed to be making him sweat more than he had been before, and Sherlock flitted his gaze around for a split second, before he seemed to instantly blush harder, his entire face blooming pink.

“At least you got to sit with your bum out,” John chortled and took another lick of his ice-lolly, vaguely worried about the expression on his friend’s face. “…Did I tell you I’m back at the surgery tomorrow? Dr Walker has the rest of the week off, the lucky bugger, so I’ve been asked to fill in for him, which is a bit of a pain in the arse really. I had hoped to spend a bit more time at home with you and maybe write more on the blog, but I suppose if there’s nothing on, I should probably work.” 

John sighed and pulled at his vest, wafting it in a disjointed ripple as an attempt to get a breeze down his chest. “My God it’s hot,” he complained, and after a faint moment of deliberation, he pulled the damp fabric up over his head leaving, him clad in just pants.

“Oh good lord,” Sherlock whispered under his breath with clenched eyes, morphing his face into a grimacing sort of snarl. “Could you not, do… that? Go away. I…I…you’re making it hotter with your…added…body…warmth…it was better when you weren’t here. Much better.”

John looked across at Sherlock with an upturned eyebrow and then frowned, "Do what? Exist? Breathe? Convert food into energy?” He mumbled before suddenly swearing as drips of the melting lolly dropped onto his chest, clinging to the slight amount of hair there, and then rolling down towards his belly. With a tut, John glowered light-heartedly and groaned with a faint hissing at the sticky cooling sensation, rubbing it into his skin, awkwardly feeling his nipples pebble as the liquid was smeared into the sensitive flesh, soaking and faintly staining.

Sherlock wheezed, blinked owlishly and then unexpectedly sat up, staring down at his lap, “Oh. _Oh_! Oh no…n-no…I’m…I’m having an _orgasm_ ,” he slurred without proper thought, his muscles jumping in his stomach, thighs and backside as he arched a little off the sofa; gripping handfuls of a nearby sofa cushion when his flushed and hardened penis gave a visible throb and spurted thickly up his chest in high arcs.

John dropped the rest of the lolly in shock, letting it rest and melt at his groin with only a vague hitching gasp at the temperature as he looked over at his best friend, whom seemed to be having a seemingly unwanted orgasm, untouched and shaking. 

He gaped, fixatedly, as he followed the shape of Sherlock's spine and took in the state of his twitching stomach, "Sherlock... Sherlock stop that right now," was the first thing out of his mouth as he stared, transfixed, at the ribbons of ejaculate coating Sherlock’s skin.

Groaning, Sherlock rutted erratically for a few more moments, splashing ejaculate across his chin and over his thighs, “I _can’t_ ,” he growled out through clenched teeth and riding out his climax with a few more sharp thrusts, sweat dripping down his temples. 

When the last weak pulse of ejaculate oozed and smeared down the still twitching length of his penis, Sherlock slumped and moaned in embarrassment, panting in exhaustion. He looked lethargic and overheated, and he blinked sluggishly down at the mess he’d made. Mortified.

John's eyes were wide; he had never seen a man ejaculate up close before _(outside of porn)_. In the army, he was aware of men masturbating, under the covers in the barracks, or attempting to find a moments peace in the showers; however it was always hidden and unspoken. Of course, friend’s ribbed one another if they were accidentally caught, but that had been playful banter, the soldiers life… what had just happened wasn’t that. His stomach tensed and flipped in sympathy with his friend. Sherlock had always been so private about his sexuality that it must have been utterly traumatic for the younger man. 

"It’s... It's all right Sherlock. I... Its fine," he muttered standing up to grab the box of tissues from the mantle, left there after Sherlock’s last cold. John only realised that his pants were soaked with the melted ice and therefore now partially see-through, exposing the shape of his own cock – which strangely wasn’t entirely as flaccid as he had thought – when he was already two steps away from Sherlock and stuttered, covering himself with the box.

Sherlock was trembling and sweating, seeming very slightly faint, and he avoided John’s gaze and glared at his genitals, “I…I’m sorry—it’s this heat and…and I couldn’t stop it…I didn’t even think that I’d do that. Or could do that. Not without some sort of stimulation or…”

John chuckled reassuringly and passed his friend the box of tissues, "Yeah, they have a mind of their own sometimes," he said before motioning thoughtlessly to his own crotch, and then blushing and cursing himself inwardly for drawing attention to his own predicament. He turned quickly to walk to the doorway but stopped and turned around with a sigh. "I’m going to go and, erm... change. You are all right though, yeah? You're not going to... run off or anything until I get back?"

“I might,” Sherlock mumbled, cheeks still hot and red as he wiped up his mess, peeking at John fairly shyly from under his brows and then looking away. “Please _no_ —John, you’ve got that _we’ll-need-to-talk-about-this_ face. I’m not discussing this. Ever. Delete it. This never happened. All right? Never.” He dabbed the tissue through the messy streaks on his stomach, nudging his slightly deflated penis aside irritably, and avidly ignored the fact that he’d gotten some on the sofa as well as his own dressing gown. Sherlock pulled a face and also rubbed the wetness from his chin with an angry swipe, curling his toes.

"You're staying there until I get back or I swear I will… tie you up," John warned with a soft fondness in his face. "I just... let me put on better pants."

John rushed to his bedroom when Sherlock gave a brisk, strained nod, and closed the door, pressing his back to the cool wood as he inhaled and exhaled a few times in an attempt to stop the hysterical giggles, which bubbled up from his chest with a shake of his shoulders. What an absolutely ridiculous scenario to be in! He and Sherlock did ridiculous _all_ of the time, but this? This was a new level of weird. John pulled on a pair of black boxers and threw his fruit stained pants into the washing basket, returning downstairs and steadying himself mentally before walking into the living room.

Sherlock had draped part of his dressing gown over his naked lap and disposed of the used tissues by throwing them to the floor, “Fine. I’m still here. Out with it,” he snapped, still not looking John in the face. “Say whatever stupid thing you want so I can ignore it, and you, and go take another very cold shower.”

John took a seat in his chair again and simply shrugged his shoulders, "You shouldn't be embarrassed. Stuff happens like that, the heat can get to you. I'm not offended or disgusted or anything, it doesn’t change anything between us it just... happened." John grimaced with a slight pink tinge to his cheeks. He didn’t have to look at his reflection to know it was there. "However, as your doctor..."

“Good Lord.” Covering his face with his hands, Sherlock complained with a low, grating annoyed sound in the back of his throat, “Here it comes—go on then. What is it, _Doctor mine_?”

"Well," John blushed with a half-hearted glare. "I... do...when—Christ, Sherlock do you masturbate?"

Sherlock dropped his hands and looked up at him slowly, “What?” he asked with a frown, looking around and then wringing his dressing gown between his fingers in frustration. “What does that have to do with anything?”

"Well. I'm just thinking that maybe it could be something to do with it, as it can be easy to get over stimulated and ejaculate if you don’t partake in such…things. If you’re not used to…sexual feelings and thoughts and…all of that, then you could get overly worked up and it just happens. Sort of like when you were a teenager and it sometimes happened at a drop of a hat," John said, attempting to hide the quiver of embarrassment in his voice, annoyed at himself that he was even embarrassed at all considering he was a doctor. "If you haven’t…you know... “cleaned your pipes,” for a while then it could explain why that," he gestured at the tissues on the floor, "happened. – There are other reasons, of course, but I’m hoping this is the reason.”

“Oh.” Sherlock uttered, sitting up a little straighter and running a still slightly shaky hand through his sweat-soaked hair. He scowled with a scoff. “Really? Is that your medical expertise, doctor?—I don’t masturbate that frequently. I can go months without doing so. Years. I don’t need to, so, I…don’t do it. My body is merely transport, remember?”

John blinked, opened his mouth and then blinked again as he processed the information, "Years? Did you say years?"

“It’s not that uncommon, John,” Sherlock sighed with a roll of his eyes, seeming more confident and at ease the longer they spoke, and the more uneasy John became whilst discussing the situation. “A lot of men go sexually abstinent.” 

"Yes. Yes, I know that. I’m just…surprised – though perhaps I shouldn’t be. You’re right. Maybe that explains the erm... incident though,," John nodded and waved his hand dismissively. "Maybe you should try and do it more often? Just to see if that’s the problem. Masturbate I mean. In private, not around me—not that it bothers me or anything like that, I just... privacy and Mrs Hudson..." he gestured before inhaling sharply. "Right...so salad or sandwiches?"

“John, I’m hot, sweaty, and encrusted in my own… _essence_ , I’m going for a shower,” Sherlock told him and tightly held his dressing gown around his waist before swaying to his feet, almost falling onto John as he past. “And I wouldn’t eat anything from the salad crisper, if I were you.” With those parting words, Sherlock shuffled out of the living room with a scowl, picking at the drying droplets of ejaculate on his torso.


	2. Chapter 2

John scowled at Sherlock and took off at a march toward the bus terminal. The stupid great git had vowed that they would be back after breaking into the suspects house in time to catch the train back to London, however, after a nightmarish dash through the woods with a literal madman chasing them, and finally reaching the safety of the police tape, they had then ‘rushed’ – John knew how fast Sherlock could run and he clearly slowed down on purpose – to the station only to find that they had, indeed, missed their train. John had then turned and stared at Sherlock, begging him to say something about him missing his third date with Jane, just so that he could have an excuse to punch him right in his stupid face, but he had instead, smartly, remained silent. 

John climbed onto the national express coach and sat in the aisle seat above the wheels, refusing to move for Sherlock, who would have to shimmy and shuffle to take his seat beside the window. Sherlock always had the window seat whenever he could, and would whine and complain if he didn’t. Like a child. A tall, curly haired, pouting, ridiculous, annoying child.

“Really, John,” Sherlock huffed as he squirmed past and dropped down beside him, adjusting his coat and shooting a glare at John from the corner of his eyes, “You can be really childish sometimes, do you know that?—Personally, I see no real difference from this and the train. They’re both abhorrent things filled with equally repugnant people.”

"The train doesn't take as long. If we had caught the train then I would have been back in time to take Jane to that lovely little Indian place before going back to her flat and—Y'know what? It doesn’t matter," John spat, countering Sherlock’s glare with one of his own, adding as much anger and sharpness to his as he could. "They already had all the evidence they needed but you just had to be a bloody show-off and prove you knew better and _that_ is why we're on this bloody stupid bloody bus, and will continue to be for three bloody hours!"

“I did know better,” Sherlock sniffed and tugged off his scarf, turning to look out the window, putting an end to their conversation by physically showing John he no longer wished to talk. Something he often did. Too often. He always seemed to turn away or ignore him, while John always seemed to leave. Leave the room, leave the flat, just walk. He sometimes wondered if he should actually leave. 

John mirrored his actions and rummaged through his pocket for the folded up magazine he had purchased during the only short quiet moment during the case. He had already read the entire thing from front to back, twice, but he needed something to take his mind off the feeling of loss of finally, finally getting his end away after months of Sherlock induced celibacy. Jane, who he had heard nothing off since he had sent her an apology text, would no doubt dump him once he returned, whether John explained to her the reason he had missed their date or not. He had already cancelled three dates in the past during the first few weeks of their relationship because of Sherlock. It was becoming a theme. A horrible, sexually frustrating, theme. John huffed and crossed his legs as he opened the front page and began reading about the so-called ‘cures’ for male pattern baldness, which were in absolutely no way realistic and anyone who believed them was either an imbecile or desperate. It was genetic. It was hard to fight with genes. Idiots.

Sherlock remained silent and stoic and tense at his side, unmoving and unapologetic, which only served to make John angrier. However, after only half an hour into their journey, Sherlock slumped, shifted and all out fidgeted, crossing his legs and then uncrossing them several times over the span of several minutes. It wasn’t exactly unusual. Sherlock, for the most part, couldn’t sit still after a case, not when he still had so much pent up energy. Something he clearly currently did. He hissed and let out a tensed breath, adjusting his position on the seat and then finally turned towards John.

“Are there toilets on these things?” he muttered in John’s ear, pressing into his side as he tried to peer over the lines of headrests, and the backs of heads that were against them, to scan the entire length of the coach, his body literally vibrating with barely suppressed energy.

"Don't think so. It's not a long trip so they don't have them... also, I wouldn't use them even if there were some. You could catch all sorts of infections from public loos," John mumbled idly, still vaguely peeved at Sherlock, before looking up from the magazine properly and frowning. "Why? You all right? You don’t feel sick do you? I didn’t think you suffered from motion sickness?"

“No. Not sick,” Sherlock said through his teeth, squirming in his seat with a shaky puff of breath that exploded down John’s neck because of how uncomfortably close he was. Sherlock always seemed to find a way to be ‘too close.’ Must he always be so damn close? “It’s the…damn… _vibrations_ from the wheels…”

"Ah," John murmured with a nod, before flicking his eyes up in sudden realisation seconds later. "Oh! Oh God, you don’t mean...? Really? Now? Really? From a bloody bus?” It had been at least two months since the ‘heat wave incident.’ Two months of trying to forget it had ever happened whilst simultaneously trying not to automatically listen out to see if Sherlock had taken his advice. Obviously he hadn’t. “Christ Sherlock! Haven't you been...y'know, taking care of it? Have you even tried what I suggested? Has this happened before now? You need to tell me if it’s become a problem, Sherlock—God. Look. Forget it. We can…discuss it at home. Just… ignore it for now. It’s fine. You’re not the only man to suffer through such…reactions on moving transport. Believe me. Mind of their own, remember."

Sherlock glared at him, but the glazed sort of look in his eyes made it look almost wanton, “Of course I’ve not being ‘taking care of it!’ I’ve been busy and I don’t do that, I told you!” he whispered, suddenly grabbing John’s thigh with one hand in the next second. “ _Oh God_ …”

Sherlock frantically glanced around and then tried to hold himself up from the vibrating seat. The position opened his coat and displayed the very prominent and very obvious bulge in his trousers. Luckily no one was looking at him, but the more he fidgeted and struggled up into an awkward crouch from the seat, the more noise he made and the more he jostled the people in front of them.

" _Stop that!_ " John hissed, pushing on Sherlock's hip to shove him back down and attempting to avoid his erection. This was ridiculous. This was worse than before. Much worse. John could see people turning to look. "God, we're going to get arrested. I bloody told you it might keep happening if you didn’t... deal with it occasionally, and now you're here with a stiffy on the bus!"

Sherlock fought John for a moment and then writhed and gripped higher on John’s thigh with a quickly stifled gasp, his eyes widening, “ _Oh_ …Oh no. John. _John_ , it’s happening…I… _Oh God_ …” Sherlock uttered, choking on a rather huskily promiscuous sound that threatened to escape his throat. He bucked up tensely as John stared at him aghast, unused to such sounds, such visual imagery. “ _No_ …nonononono!”

"Fuck," John groaned in compliant and turned to awkwardly shelter Sherlock from any other passengers that happened to nosily look their way, holding his magazine up for extra blocking as he watched Sherlock's face contort in both horror and then heightening blissful pleasure. John couldn't resist tracking the oddly pretty blush cover Sherlock's cheeks, and bit his lower lip to stifle a sudden moan of sympathy. He placed his hand over the one Sherlock had on his thigh and tried to be soothing, stubbornly determined not to remember how Sherlock had arched up from the sofa two months prior. "Breathe, just... keep breathing. Nothing we can do about it now, yeah? Just... finish up and we'll try and sort something out later."

“N-no. No I _can’t_! Not again. Please…”

“There’s nothing to be done, Sherlock. – At least this time we’re both a little more…ready…for it…? Not to mention you’re clothed, so…that’s definitely a plus.”

“Good God, shut up,” Sherlock groused.

“Why? Putting you off? Isn’t that a good thing?” John mumbled, giving another look around to make sure they were still not gaining an unwanted audience. “Listen, if it’s going to happen, you might as well just…let it…happen. Once it has, you’ll feel better. Tones better. – But when we get home, we’re going to have a talk about this, because this is stupid!” John sighed and squeezed Sherlock’s hand in what he hoped was a comforting sort of way. Never had he thought he’d be comforting a grown man at such a crazy moment as this. “ Just…let it…happen.”

Sherlock shook his head in refusal, trying his best to hold back on the inevitable, but then relented and nodded in defeat barely five seconds later, looking dejected and embarrassed. Pushing his scarf into his own face and biting down on it, the blushing detective glanced down with a muffled whimper and watched as his body betrayed him for a second time. His thighs and hips abruptly trembled, signalling the oncoming climax, as John couldn’t help but follow Sherlock’s line of sight. 

Within the confines of his trousers, the hard shape of Sherlock’s erection twitched, violent and strong and rapid, and John, once again, bared witness to Sherlock’s unstoppable orgasm. He filled the front of his underwear with several rough bursts, which bloomed slowly in a large growing circle of dampness. Blatant and slick at his crotch. Some of the ejaculate seeped through the material of both his briefs and trousers, and John could do nothing but stare as it dripped down between Sherlock’s shaking legs, painting the crease of his upper thighs. Thankfully Sherlock’s trousers were dark navy in colour and so from afar, perhaps such a thing could not be seen? God John hoped so.

John took a shaky inhale and checked around at the various other commuters sitting nearby. Nobody seemed interested in the heavy breathing of the detective much to John's gratitude, and he squeezed Sherlock's hand again and looked back over at him, "You ok? Feel a bit better?"

“N-no,” Sherlock hissed, his breath catching and quaking as he shifted in discomfort, his hand remaining tightly gripped on John’s thigh as he shook in aftershock. “O-of course I don’t! It looks like I’ve pissed myself for goodness sake! And this…this…this bloody _vibrating_ —Can we change seats?” 

John raised his eyebrow and looked around, “Not really the best time to be standing up with wet pants mate. – There are no other free seats, and there’s no point in you and I switching as the wheels go under my seat too… you’ll just be more exposed in this seat. At least I can shelter you with my body a bit here.” John soothed. “We only have – approximately 2 hours and 33 minutes until we’re home.”

Sherlock punched the sill of the coach window, earning him a wave of looks from those nearest, “I can’t sit here for that long, John,” he protested, lifting himself up with an intense shaking of his legs and dropping his scarf to hide the wetness at his crotch with a cringe. “I need to move!”

"Sherlock," John seethed using his sternest tone, something that many have aptly named his ‘captain voice,’ which John found ridiculously amusing. "Sit your arse down this second. – Let's talk about our options; one, you get up, start making a scene and playing havoc and we get kicked off the bus and then what? Walk home? Or, I suppose, we could phone Mycroft, who would immediately know what had happened and keep it over you for the rest of your life. Same goes for Lestrade... or two, we sit quietly and calmly on the bus and deal with the...situation as best we can until we get to our destination – Now, frankly, I prefer option two. I’m sure you do too. Listen, I know it's a shitty one but it's our only one. Here," he handed Sherlock his own coat once he’d shrugged it from his shoulders, "put this over your lap, you won't be as visible."

Slowly, Sherlock sat back down and wriggled, his cheeks red, “Fine,” he said curtly, and snatched his hand back from John’s thigh resentfully, pushing the same hand up into his hair. Breathing heavily through his nose, Sherlock screwed his eyes shut, adjusted his posture, and then inhaled a deep and unsteady breath, holding it for four seconds and then letting it out in a long, controlled gush of air, seeming suddenly composed but for the miniscule twitch in his expression every few seconds. 

“Good, that’s good,” John smiled. “Why don’t you try and get some sleep? You’re probably exhausted after your day of running and being a genius and…all of that. I’ll wake you when we’re closer. – It’ll help, I think.”

“Maybe you should sleep,” Sherlock grumbled in retort, not opening his eyes, and wiggled with a slow and rolling movement, his hands flexing, before he paused all motion altogether and looked to withdraw in on himself with a flutter of his eyelashes. Probably hoping he’d not die of shame in his posh mind palace.

John sighed and rolled his eyes, annoyed, overwhelmed and extremely flustered with what had just transpired. Hardly anyone had noticed what had happened, and John was extremely grateful, though they were still receiving some narrowed sideways glances in response to the noise and Sherlock’s sour mood. John couldn’t believe what he had to put up with by being friends with Sherlock Holmes. As if exploding, smelly experiments, or noisy violin tantrums weren’t enough, now he had to deal with sudden orgasms in the stuffy heat of a summer’s day, or orgasms brought on by the vibrations of a sodding bus. 

John was worried for Sherlock as well as hugely curious as to how sensitive Sherlock really was. How easy would it be to have him embarrass himself again at another time? What if it did happen again? It could. In fact, it might. Shaking the thought away with a gentle cough, John adjusted his own seating position and eyed the magazine again, trying to ignore how the thought resurfaced. Ultimately, Sherlock would, without a doubt, be in the same position again if he was so sensitive to stimulation. Though that did raise some questions. If he had always been this way, this sensitive, then why had this not happened before? Surely it would have? What was so different now? Sherlock had been on trains, in taxicabs, and probably had been on many a bus before, so why hadn’t this happened then? Why hadn’t Sherlock shivered and gasped in relentless, overpowering pleasure before? What was different?

Just as John had predicted and feared, after an hour, the flush from Sherlock’s recent ‘activities,’ which had remained on his face splattered over the arc of his cheekbones and down the slope of his neck, quickly deepened. John dozily watched from his slumped position beside the man, as more sweat seemed to gather at Sherlock’s hairline and drip down his jaw in small shaking droplets. John knew what was happening. How could he not? As such, he was unsurprised when Sherlock finally, abruptly, huffed, shuddered, and opened his eyes with a wet wheezing breath, loud enough to attract the attention of those seated directly behind and in front of them. The doomed man looked feverishly downward and bit at his bottom lip. Gripping the edge of the seat he quickly hunched forwards over his knees, pretending to fiddle with and knead his legs, as if he had cramp. John knew better.

John straightened resignedly next to his friend, with anxiousness and something else, something hot, swirling in his gut. The bus was surprisingly quiet. Only the hum of the engine and a young person’s music playing through tinny headphones filling the space around them, and so Sherlock’s heavy breathing seemed ten times louder than it normally would. A few people sitting adjacent to them glanced over, though John was sure they assumed Sherlock was merely feeling unwell, as they promptly looked away again with a paling of their faces. 

“Sh’lock?” He mumbled, rubbing his eyes and clearing his throat. “What’s wrong?” John was unsure why he asked, seeing as he knew, or at least had a suspicion. What else could it be?

Sherlock shook his head and curved tighter over his knees, pressing down on himself. The sight was anything but amusing, and John felt instantly sorry for his flat mate. Breathing hard, Sherlock then tried crossing his legs, but quickly put his leg back down with a barely contained moan. Thankfully it sounded more painful than pleasurable, and therefore didn’t garner much attention while Sherlock squirmed on the vibrating seat with a hiss through his teeth, trying to fight what was happening. Fighting a losing battle, clearly.

“Jesus, again?” John mumbled, pressing himself closer to Sherlock’s side. “Can’t you… I don’t know, grab yourself or something? Sometimes if you hold the base firmly it can pause it, in some cases even stop it,” he explained, looking down at where his coat covered Sherlock’s groin. “Just… if you can’t hold it it’s okay… We’ll just… manage… again.”

“No,” Sherlock whispered throatily, whimpering in the next second and shoving his hand between his legs, fumbling with his trousers. “It’s not…not okay! I…I will not…will not…” Bent over as he was, he couldn’t quite get his hand to work in the small and crushing gap between his thighs and his stomach, and he shifted with a gasp, shaking as the vibrations continued to torture him. “Why is this happening? This has never happened before! Never once have I had to suffer through this embarrassment! – Especially not twice in a bloody row!” John was almost positive he could read minds.

John scrubbed at his face, “Freaking out is not going to help,” he grumbled. “Could you try thinking of something else? The usual, clichéd, scenario for me is Margaret Thatcher naked… although seeing as you probably have no clue who that is, you could try thinking of Anderson?” John tittered noticing Sherlock’s suddenly furious face. “Or not…but it might help? If it makes you queasy or highly disgusted, it’d surely dampen any…pleasure or arousal.”

Sherlock clenched his eyes shut, but after trying in vain to chase away the unavoidable, he whined and sat up a bit, gripping John’s hand unexpectedly, “I’m going to make a horrendous mess of the…the…the seat at this rate,” he forced out just before his eyes rolled back and he gargled on a stuttering groan, convulsing in orgasm number two with an intermittent thrusting of his hips, arching his head back.

“I think this is the first time I’ve heard you worry about furniture or other people’s possessions,” John chuckled tightly, putting his other hand under his own coat to grip Sherlock’s knee. It was an odd attempt to calm and comfort Sherlock, but it also stopped him from reaching and clutching his own rapidly hardening cock. The reasons for its sudden stiffness were reasons he really didn’t want to think about. He tried to distract himself. He was sure he could smell the lingering scent of Sherlock’s ejaculate but hoped against hope that he was just imagining it, his brain too fried to think properly as he watched Sherlock thrust and shudder. “There you are, there you go… hush.” John soothed without conscious thought.

After those words Sherlock suddenly, and quite uncharacteristically, turned and pushed his face into John’s neck with a grunt and a bitten off moan, the crotch of his trousers utterly sodden when John’s coat fell from his legs, jostled away by Sherlock’s shallow rutting. Ejaculate was seeping out in thick beads where the head of Sherlock’s cock was pressed, and it dribbled to wet the top of Sherlock’s clothed thigh.

“John,” Sherlock breathed, sounding wanton and embarrassed and overwhelmed, his hips rolling and snapping forward twice more. “I can… officially say… that I hate buses…”

John’s breathing hitched on wheezing laughter at the broken sentence, and Sherlock’s tone, and he stayed statue still, one hand clutching the detective’s knee. His other balled into a loose fist under Sherlock’s flexing fingers. He blinked, attempting to stop the flood of panic and nervous energy thrumming through his blood, and tried very hard to ignore the throb of his own cramped erection, “God, I’m not sure whether to be angry, frustrated, or jealous,” he said with a forced smile. “You have a good refraction period for a man in his late 30’s.”

“Shut up,” Sherlock murmured and righted himself sluggishly, shivering when the coach went over a bump in the road and increased the intensity of the vibration beneath him. Sherlock had been right about messing the seat, whether he had said it as a fact, a complaint, or a warning, it had been extremely accurate. Sherlock peeked down between his legs at the damp spot under his backside, where the ejaculate had pooled inside and outside of his trousers. It was a slick, musky mess.

The bump they had gone over, it turned out, hadn’t just jostled Sherlock but also another passenger, and as John awkwardly patted Sherlock’s knee he was suddenly aware of a soft cry that came from the front of the bus, followed by a startled gasp from a nearby female passenger. John craned his neck to try and see what had happened. A quiet murmuring rippled through the seats, people helpfully turning around and directing John’s gaze down the aisle to where a young boy was sitting with an ashen faced and bleeding quite heavily onto the carpeted floor. Brilliant. Just what he needed.

John sighed and looked at Sherlock apologetically, “I’m just going to go see what’s happened. I have to help. Just… stay here,” he ordered the pitiful and sweaty detective, before standing up and using the headrests of the seats to walk down toward the crying boy. “I’m a doctor, can I help?” Being so close, John could easily answer his own question. The young lad had deeply cut open his finger on a coke can he had been fiddling with. “All right. Let’s take a look…”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, this is Gem,  
> I apologise for how long it's taking me to edit this story and get it up! Life is hard.  
> There might be a longer wait when I get to the parts Kittie and I have yet to write as well...
> 
> Anyway, I'm just putting a message here to apologise for the wait, thank you for your patience.

Although the injury had been a mild, minor thing, it was half an hour later that John had finally managed to stop the bleeding, with the use of numerous tissues taken from an elderly lady seated opposite the boy and the frankly underwhelming contents of the first aid kit. Fingers liked to bleed quite a lot, annoyingly. John applied a long, roll of gauze and an adhesive bandage to the boy, checked, once again, if there were any other injuries, and then fondly mussed up the lad’s hair with several automatic murmured words of encouragement. He pocketed the rest of the unused tissues, making sure the rest of the passengers were all right, and walked back to his seat, flushing pink as many people he past gave him a pat and a soft applause. He was unsure why he deserved it. It had been nothing. It wasn’t as if he’d saved the boy’s life. Although if he had, then he’d still not think he deserved it, it was the right thing to do and there should be no question in helping those in need.

“Here.” John handed Sherlock the pack of spare tissues. “I know it’s not much but it should help to clean you up a little.” He gestured at Sherlock’s crotch with a quick flick of his fingers as he sat down. “You ok?”

Sherlock snatched the tissues away and glared, “I really wish you’d stop asking stupid questions, John,” he criticised, using John’s coat to further cover his lap as he awkwardly patted his crotch, and the seat, dry. His mouth contorted when the coach jolted over another dip in the road, but that wasn’t the only thing that had disgruntled him. “Brilliant. Now everyone is looking over at us. Happy, Doctor? – You just had to go and play the hero.” With a pout Sherlock shifted and there was the faint noise of his zip being pulled down, as he continued to use the tissues with a full and bright blush still on his face and neck.

John wasn’t sure what Sherlock had been up to whilst he’d been busy fussing over young and bloody fingers. Sulking mostly. Sulking and sitting in his own mess. John watched, half amused and half frustrated, as the slender man looked everywhere but at John, scowling fiercely at anyone who glanced in their direction. Normally so eager for attention, and all kinds of attention too, uncaring on what it might be, Sherlock was now dreading and hating each turned head and wandering gaze, and it was quite a thing to witness. Ultimately, however, Sherlock’s unnecessary childishness came to an end, and he turned to finally peek at John with what looked like an expression of apology for his obvious snappish behaviour, though he did not say it aloud. Not that John was expecting as such, of course. 

"I could always go back down the bus," John suggested snidely, “leave you here to brood on your own. – Remember, it’s your fault we’re on this bloody thing in the first place”. Going over everything that had led them up to this point, John grimaced as he imagined the mess in Sherlock’s trousers after a multitude of orgasms and couldn’t help but feel himself becoming slowly sympathetic once more toward his prickly friend. “Just… We’re nearly there. Another half hour or so.”

“We would have been there a lot sooner if it weren’t for the traffic,” Sherlock mumbled, shifting his gaze out the window briefly as if to make his point, his hands still preoccupied. 

"You should get in touch with Mycroft, ask him to change the lights for us," John huffed in amusement. "Or Lestrade to send us a police escort. That'd be quicker.”

“Lestrade’s busy trying to be competent,” Sherlock retorted. When his gaze moved back to John, he gave him a small, meek looking smile, and another expression of apology. Again, he did not put voice to it.

John rolled his eyes but returned Sherlock’s smile with a fond, and slightly exasperated, one of his own. “Busy stressing over the mountains of paperwork because of you, you mean.”

“That’s his own fault.”

“How?” John asked, bemused by Sherlock’s reply. “How is any of that his fault? – He wasn’t the one who--”

Sherlock snorted, “He chose to be a Detective Inspector.”

“…What has that got to do with anything?”

“Being in that line of work, and sharing that work with me, means a vast array of tedious paperwork. He knew that. Yet he continued on anyway.” Sherlock told him with a smirk, gaze on John. It flickered between John’s eyes, but after a moment, the gaze shifted, losing focus, and drifted downward. It almost looked like he was reminiscing. Remembering something. He’d had the same look about him many times during the case too, an odd dreamy and fuzzy look, and something John was sure he’d seen in Sherlock’s eyes even before that, since after the ‘heat wave incident’. Now that he thought about it, he was sure he’d seen a glimmer of it during the start of their messy journey.

John tried to ignore it and bring Sherlock’s focus back to the present with a loud snort through his nose, “What do you expect him to do? Quit?”

“No,” Sherlock drawled, still somewhat distracted. 

“Then what?” John asked and clicked his fingers in front of the detective’s face. “What?—”

All of a sudden, Sherlock stiffened beside John and blinked, shaking very minutely, “Nothing,” he uttered as he shifted position on his seat, clearing his throat and rummaging under the coat. The movements were different, less stiff and angry and more shakily frantic, and John frowned, flinching back when Sherlock began throwing the used and soaked tissues to the floor. They fell with a wet slap and the cleanest ones, the ones yet to be used, were rapidly grabbed for.

John watched, disgusted but intrigued, slowly noticing the now familiar reactions with an odd thrill. "Oh God. Sherlock? Are you…?"

“What?” Sherlock asked, trying to act neutral even his voice thick and deep. From the stilled, rigid placement of his right arm, it looked like he was gripping himself tightly. “Next time, we are not sitting over the bloody wheels! This is…humiliating! – Do you have anymore tissues?”

“No, those were the last,” John said with an annoyed glance down at the sodden heap at Sherlock’s splayed feet, chuckling dryly and scrubbing at his face. “How… bad is it down there that you’ve used a full pack of tissues? – Christ. This is the strangest night of my life.”

“There’s sweat as well, you know,” Sherlock told him idly, tipping his head back with a quivering breath and then shaking a little harder. “H-how long did you say? Until this God awful vehicle stops?—Is the dim-witted old fool in the Volvo still slowing us down?”

“Seems so,” John nodded with a sigh, lifting his head to look out the front of the bus as best he could. “Should be about 20 minutes or so now. Once we get to the station we can get you straight home and showered. I imagine you’ll sleep like the dead after all of…this.” He smiled at his friend and scanned his features, pushing back on the buzz of arousal at once again wondering the sensitivity of him and feeling both sympathetic and oddly smug. Was it just pure luck that this had happened to Sherlock in John’s presence and only in his presence? Should he see it as such? Who was it lucky for? For Sherlock or for John himself? And why wasn’t it as concerning to John as it should be? “You think you’re…erm… done then? Or…?”

Sherlock glanced at him with a crumpled face and then slowly shook his head, “I’m…holding it,” he told John with a lowered voice, his right arm shaking. “Both literally and…well, no, forget that. It’s just literally actually. I’m literally holding it. Holding my penis and holding back the quickly, nearing, building need to--”

“Christ,” John hissed, putting a stop to Sherlock’s words and promptly ignoring the flaring lick of arousal and almost sadistic glee that said words had ignited. He was just sexually frustrated. That was all. “Just… keep breathing. Does it help if I talk? Would you like me to keep talking to you or shut up? – And I mean help you to not be…aroused, not the other way around.”

“I know that! – And I…I don’t know,” Sherlock told him honestly with another bloom of colour to his already flushed face, his left hand moving with a rustle of tissues. “I…have a slight problem though. I’m…out. Exposed. I had to take myself out to clean up and now I can’t put myself away again because if I let go I’m positive that I’m going to—”

“Shit,” John groaned. 

“…No. Not shit. – Though that would definitely be more of a problem. Things could be worse. Need to think… optimistically…”

“Shut it! – Erm… Can you not just wrap the tissues around the…the, uh, the – fucking hell Sherlock – around your bellend and put it away? Coming in your pants is way better than you doing it out in the open. And you need to do something to… cover yourself back up. You can’t get off the bus with your cock out. People will definitely talk.”

“I’m sure they’ll do more than talk, John,” Sherlock chortled, looking slightly delirious from the clear build up of torturous pleasure from the constant vibrations running through his seat. “I have already done that, but…I don’t know if…” He trailed off, murmuring to himself, and moved his left arm. He felt around and trembled, arching his hips off the seat with a muffled but very obvious moan.

John scrubbed at his face once more, feeling much too tired to deal with this situation any longer, "For crying out loud…Sherlock. Sherlock, just…just... do it. We're almost home."

“I don’t want to,” Sherlock told him, angrily sullen, his hips twitching and rotating as he tried in vain to chase away his third climax. How had this happened? John really didn’t want to think about how sore Sherlock might be. How sensitive and…eager…and…he shouldn’t be so interested in it all. “Can’t you do something? You’re a Doctor! Do something Doctor like. Help me… I just cleaned up and I…if this happens, I don’t think I’ll be able to walk straight let alone think straight!”

John chuckled wryly and shook his head, "What can I do? Even doctors can’t stop the inevitable climax! Unless I shoved something up your knob... no Sherlock... don't even look at me like that. – The only other way is to, you know, dispose of it another way. Do it in your hand and er... eat it--but neither of us wants that... not sure why I even suggested it." John stopped talking for a few seconds with a blush at the responding rush of incredible arousal at the proposition, sure there was something wrong with him. It was just sexual frustration and lack of sleep. That’s all it was. It was better to just ignore it all. "Anyway, we'll be getting a cab home so you wont really need to do much walking."

Sherlock banged his head back on his headrest twice, irate and embarrassed, and then glanced down at his lap, “Fine. I’ll…do that then,” he said with a reverberating voice, not expanding on what it was he was going to do before he relaxed his right arm and panted. Grinding down in his seat in a rocking motion until his breath stuttered, he gasped, shaking as he let the orgasm wash over him. The third orgasm. Three. He’d climaxed three times. Three times in one afternoon. “Oh…oh no…uh…” 

John averted his eyes as Sherlock keened, following the pattern in the fabric of the headrest in front of him instead, desperately trying to focus on anything but the man beside him while John’s cock twitched and throbbed in his jeans in response,"Um...finished?" He leaned forward slightly to hide his bulging erection from view, waiting for Sherlock to relax. “What was with the ‘oh no?’ You change your mind half way through or—?”

“I…missed,” Sherlock said fuzzily, looking worn out and faint as he turned his head limply to gaze at John, slumping down in his seat with a mixture of mortification and defeat.

"Missed?" John frowned, "I don't understand?" He had heard women talk about how they’d missed their orgasms during sex before and that they hadn’t been able to get over the edge or climax, but looking at Sherlock, at how utterly wrecked and exhausted he seemed, that was not the look of someone who hadn’t had an orgasm for the third time in three hours. 

Sherlock cringed and mopped at the new mess as best he could, zipping himself back up with a look of disgust, “I missed,” he repeated, speaking slowly and carefully, as if that would explain things more clearly. Glaring when John arched an annoyed eyebrow in response, Sherlock then lifted John’s coat from his lap with a shaky hand and displayed the underside to him with a somewhat ashamed expression. A large, wet splattered mark messily adorned it. It glistened in the light and Sherlock sighed, trying to dab at it with the already saturated tissues.

"Oh," John muttered. "You...missed...and now I have... spunk on my jacket," he continued gently, "Right. Yeah. Well... you're taking it to the laundrette."

Sherlock blushed and threw the tissues down on the floor with a twitch and an instinctive jerk of his hips, looking at his hand, where he’d obviously tried to catch the most of his climax. With a twist of his lips he gingerly lifted it to his mouth, lapping up what still clung to his lean fingers. It was not something John ever thought he’d witness. Not something he ever thought Sherlock would even do. John had been joking. Hadn’t he? With wide eyes, John was fixated, and he stared as Sherlock sampled the pearly lines and beads decorating his fingers. Until, that is, Sherlock caught John look and quickly dropped his hand down to his side.

Clearing his throat, Sherlock made a fist, “…I blame you, so…technically, you only have yourself to blame and you can take your own bloody coat to the laundrette,” Sherlock grumbled, fidgeting and still breathing a little hard.

John gaped at him in reply, the scene of Sherlock popping his fingers into his own mouth and sucking off the ejaculate replayed behind his eyes on a jerky, rushing loop. He felt his cock twitch once more, the filthy view of Sherlock’s slicked hand burning into the backs of his eyes. John forced his gaze away, turning it out the window instead,"Hzzhn--We're here," he said before coughing to clear his own throat. "We’re, um, we’re just pulling up now. Got here quicker than I thought. – Best wait until everyone else is off. They probably won't be able to tell about your trousers but best not risk it, yeah?"

“How can they not smell it,” Sherlock said under his breath, wrinkling his nose at the thick spicy, scent of him in the air around them. He wiped his fingers on the edge of his seat and then used his scarf to hide the state his trousers were in when the coach juddered to a stop and everyone stood. 

"I guess they just don't think that people are wanking on coaches," John shrugged, watching for any signs of people figuring out the connection of the aroma and Sherlock's flushed state. "Plus, as you keep telling everyone, people are idiots and ‘see, but do not observe.’" He stressed exaggeratedly, much to Sherlock’s annoyance. John grinned and gathered his things, pushing up to his feet, cautious to hide his erection as he did so. "Right, coast is clear. Don't drop my coat and stay close…"

Sherlock nodded and braced himself to get up onto his feet but fell back down with a startled yelp and a look of surprise, “I…I can’t walk,” he muttered, gripping, smacking , and then stretching them out. He clutched John’s coat and his own scarf to his waist and tried again yet flailed and swayed, his legs wobbling uncontrollably. “John!”

"Oh for God’s sake..." John bit the inside of his cheek and quelled his frustration. "Right, um... put your arm around my neck." He grabbed Sherlock's waist, the smell of the man's ejaculate invading his senses strongly, and bent to help Sherlock up, half dragging, half carrying him along the walkway of the bus. 

The driver frowned and looked over as they hobbled and nudged into the empty chairs together, and John shot him a fake, tight smile, "Low blood sugar," John insisted. "I'll get him a sandwich and he'll be right as rain." He watched the driver lift his eyebrows in vague acceptance and then John frowned at the stairs down to the pavement. "Bloody hell…"

After a lot of manoeuvring and angrily hissed words, the two of them were finally in the terminal, shambling towards the exit. John couldn’t comprehend what Sherlock was feeling, and although he gave the young man a few sideways glances, he mostly kept his gaze and focus on the path ahead of them, making sure to avoid any and all obstacles. The day had been taxing for many reasons and all but carrying Sherlock across the pavement was only adding to the build up of exhaustion, frustration, and the creeping anxiety. 

Sherlock muttered and then growled under his breath, flexing his legs and almost losing his grip on John’s coat as he did so, “This is disgusting,” he complained into John’s ear, leaning heavily into his side for a moment, unaware of a gaggle of girls as they tittered over at them, one of the girls even taking a photo. 

"Let’s just... get to the cab rank," John insisted before groaning in realisation. "Hold on, we can't get into a taxi like this. You're known by all drivers and if they'll be able to tell, then it’ll spread like wild fire. I’m sure you don’t want that, no matter what you say." He looked over Sherlock's shoulder after spotting a 24 hour Tesco building from the corner of his eyes, and gave it a considering smile. "Come on." He dragged Sherlock the opposite way and out into the cold night to cross the main road, entering the supermarket. "We'll get you some fresh clothes first and then be on our way home.”

“What?” Sherlock exclaimed, digging his heels in and gripping John’s shoulder, but stumbling along with John anyway, unable to stop their progress. “Clothes? From Tescos, are you out of your mind? No. No, no, no, no! Absolutely, not!”

"Fine, stay in your sperm-y pants then. See if I care when you're laughed at or thrown out of a cab and the media find out. Not my problem," John shrugged and moved to let go of Sherlock, somewhat enjoying how the detective began to slump slightly without John’s support.

“John!” Sherlock scrambled when his legs buckled and he almost lost John’s coat and his own scarf again in the process, “Wait! No…don’t let me go!—All right, all right. Fine. Just don’t let me go. I’ll face plant the pavement otherwise,” he muttered, glaring at his own legs and then the mess at his crotch, looking overly annoyed at how useless and weak he blatantly felt. 

"I'm glad you're seeing reason," John murmured, tense and tired. He walked the pair across the road and through the fluorescent lit entryway, startling a throng of staff workers, who looked up accusingly at the men interrupting their scandalous gossip about ‘Brenda in HR.’ Both of them ignored the staff and immediately turned for the male clothing section, where John helped Sherlock to sit on one of the cushioned chairs near the small shelves filled with male shoes and rubbed his face. "Right, so we need pants and trousers. Yes?"

“Obviously,” Sherlock muttered, working his fingers into his thighs, massaging them to try and reawaken some strength back. “God, this is mortifying—”

"Remember: It could be worse." John smiled as he turned and started rummaging through the shelf of pre-packaged undies for his friend. "You could have shit yourself. Or, shit yourself at the same time as…well, you know…"

John looked over his shoulder, gave a snuff of laughter at the responding glare he received in reply, and raised his eyebrow teasingly before handing Sherlock the cheapest pack of tight white Y-fronts he could find in his size. The fact that there were 5 pairs for £3 didn't bode well for the quality, but John didn't exactly have money to burn and Sherlock had 'accidently' forgotten his wallet before they started their trip. Again. So it was this or nothing.

John moved to the trouser rack and called over to Sherlock, "Black or blue?"

“Black – Not that it matters,” Sherlock replied as he stared aghast at the pants in his grasp. “These are like the revolting ones you wear. I’ve not worn Y-fronts since I was a child. Are there no good pairs?” He threw the pack at John’s back childishly, adjusting John’s coat draped on his lap when someone walked past.

"You don’t have to wear them, go commando if you want though I’m guessing you're sensitive and chafed after...earlier," John muttered with a blush he could physically feel crawling up his face, "so I think, and recommend, that you'll need a barrier between your skin and the trousers but hey, it's up to you. I’m only a doctor, so what do I know, right?” Giving Sherlock a narrowed glower he shot the sulking detective a condescending grin and shrugged, continuing. “I'm not buying you posh boxers for the sake of getting home. You'll wear these or none." Pulling out a pair of black trousers in roughly Sherlock's size (Sherlock's were normally custom, and these were regular people size) John extended them to him. "So, what is it to be? Pants or no?"

Sherlock pinched his mouth dramatically and then rolled his eyes, holding out a hand, “Fine. Yes. I’ll wear the stupid, repellent Y-fronts,” he groused, wriggling his fingers in impatience when he wasn’t handed them back straight away. “And how, may I ask, am I going to get changed when I can barely walk, let alone stand still, on my own, in a cubicle?” 

"Oh for..." John pressed at his temples and clenched his jaw, wondering how much dental work Sherlock would owe him once he cracked his entire set of teeth. "We'll just have to go into the disabled loos. They have the handlebars there, you can hold onto those whilst I... help." He cleared his throat awkwardly. "Oh there's a thought..." He signalled for Sherlock to stay and walked to the baby aisle, picking up a pack of sensitive baby wipes, and then returning to Sherlock's side. "We’ll need these. – Right. So. Want anything else while we're here?"

Sherlock shot him a heated glare, “Just help me up,” he demanded, flitting his eyes around and then nodding pointedly towards the sign for the toilets, looking slightly thankful that they were as close as they were. However, before John could step up and wind his arm about him, Sherlock paused a moment, seemed to consider something, and then looked at John. “Actually, you need to pay for them first, don’t you? Yes. Good. Bring back a plastic bag with you—and some sweets. Skittles. The sour ones.”

Sighing loudly in clear irritation at the commands, John left Sherlock seated and gathered up the clothes, marching confidently to the self-service since the staff seemed to be still rabbiting on about Gloria or Brenda or whomever it was that was apparently doing something interesting with someone behind someone else’s back. John scanned his purchases, including the skittles, before he swiped his club card and waited for it to be verified. The woman's voice over the speaker seemed far, far, too loud in the quiet of the supermarket as she insisted that it wasn’t valid, and John clenched his hands and tried again, met with the same message. Deciding to forego the points, he inserted his debit card into the slot, only to have the red light above his head begin to flash, making a muscle in John’s eye twitch. This was getting ridiculous. Just how many times would his credit card be fiddled with? Was it Mycroft’s doing again? Or was it his own mistake?

A young boy of about eighteen came over in response, chewing terribly pungent chewing gum, and swiped his card, looking at John as though he was the scum of the earth when he spotted and peered down at the pants, trousers and sweets. "Big night in?" The lad chuckled turning his back and walking towards his group without waiting for a reply.

John placed his purchases in a bag (hiding a second inside just in case) and then marched back to Sherlock, grabbing him roughly, "Lets go."

“Ow,” Sherlock grumbled as he was manhandled. “Don’t take your issues out on me, I’ve been through enough!—Did you buy the sweets?”

"Yes, I bought the sodding sweets. And the pants. And the trousers. And the baby bloody wipes. So now the staff probably think I’ve somehow managed to shit myself," John grumbled unhappily, pulling Sherlock along slightly rougher and quicker than he would have usually, until they reached the toilets, where he slowed. John opened the wide door and locked it behind him before taking a deep breath. "Right, sit on the loo seat."

Sherlock glanced around and worried his bottom lip between his teeth, opening his mouth to say something, but then shutting it again with a click of his teeth. He ambled gracelessly over, using the handles dotted around the large space to aid his weakened walking, and sat down on the seat with a soft grunt, bending over to untie his shoes, pushing his scarf and John’s soiled coat to the floor.

"Right. So... pop your bottoms off and put them in this bag," John handed the spare carrier over. "And then we'll open the baby wipes and clean you up before putting the fresh ones on, yeah?"

“I’m not a child,” Sherlock snapped and toed out of his shoes, unbuckling his belt and undoing his trousers, peeling them down his legs with a grimace and a throaty sound of repulsion. The material was stuck to him stickily in places and he twitched and huffed in annoyance, hissing when some of his leg hairs became trapped.

Once they were off, Sherlock crumpled them up and shoved them into the bag, then started on his underwear, squirming in discomfort when it came away with a moist and tacky sound. Sherlock’s flaccid penis, when it was exposed and freed, was pink, looking slightly sore and irritated, pressed in at an awkward angle against his neat curls. Sherlock held his hand out for the wipes without looking at John and threw his underwear into the bag with his other hand.

John averted his eyes as much as possible but quickly scanned the pink and chafed penis when it was in view, his mind shifting gear, "Do... Do you want me to get you some cream for it or something?" John found himself asking unconsciously while he opened the pack of wipes and began handing them to his friend.

“No,” Sherlock mumbled with a frown as he swiped at himself, gently holding his penis in the circle of his fingers so he could rub the wipe over the skin of his groin. “Can I have another wipe, please?”

John tore his eyes away from Sherlock's groin once Sherlock glanced up and stared hard at the sink whilst he pulled out another wipe and held it between thumb and forefinger. He couldn’t believe he was seeing his friend’s naked penis again, never expecting to see it once more, especially after what had occurred. 

“Thank you,” Sherlock said curtly, plucking it from him and shifting forward, using one of the bars on the wall to pull himself so he could clean between his legs and over his backside with a look of embarrassment and frustration. Sherlock sat back with a faint wrinkle if his nose, the crease between his brows appearing, and looked over at John in question, then shook his head, licked his lips, and continued cleaning. He carefully pulled back his foreskin and dabbed at the bright red glans, and then finished up by wiping down his inner thighs.

John turned around fully, keeping his back to Sherlock, and cleared his throat, naming all the bones in his hand until he had finally managed to dull and cut off the scary, unbearable arousal, which had grown at the sight of Sherlock’s long fingers skimming down the inside of his thighs. John’s cock was hot, heavy and twitching in the confines of his jeans, and he desperately wanted to go home, snuggle under his duvet, and wank himself as raw as Sherlock currently was. He steadied his breathing and glared at the cleaning schedule on the inside of the toilet door. "Are you nearly done?"

“Yes. But we cannot go. I…may have a small issue,” Sherlock told him. “Not exactly one that you need to help me with—Well, you might have to, but I think I shall try on my own first with the assistance of the surrounding metal bars… that have recently been cleaned. And very thoroughly as well. – OCD can be quite a treat when it comes to cleaning toilets…”

"Get to the point," John insisted without turning around, trying to focus his breathing. He counted 1 with every inhale and 2 with every exhale as frustration, weariness, and bollock aching horniness, fought for dominance.

“I need to urinate,” Sherlock said bluntly, with faint embarrassment colouring his tone and his face when John glanced back at him. “Quite badly. I thought for certain that I’d be able to…ignore it, but I accidentally pressed too hard on my bladder when I was…cleaning…and I so need to go. Now.”

John pressed the balls of his palms into his eye sockets and cursed to a deity he didn't believe in, "Can't you just... do it sitting down?"

Sherlock blinked, taken back, and then looked down at the toilet he was sitting on, “…Yes?” He mumbled with amusement. “I suppose I could, but I’d still need to stand up to lift the lid. ” He shifted and, holding onto one of the bars beside him, pulled himself up, reaching awkwardly to push the lid up, almost toppling when his socked foot slid across the shiny and smooth tiled floor.

"Jesus, stay still," John griped, turning and grabbing Sherlock at the waist to catch him before he fell. "I refuse to go to A&E and explain why we were found together, with you half naked in a Tesco disabled loos and with carrier bags full of spunk covered clothing. I refuse Sherlock. I utterly refuse!" John’s serious expression only lasted for another two seconds before it crumpled and he began giggling uncontrollably at the ridiculousness of the entire scenario. Gasping for breath he knocked his temple into Sherlock’s hair softly, shaking with hilarity and whispering directly into Sherlock’s ear between giggles. "And I'm not touching your cock."

Sherlock chortled in return and turned his head, rubbing his nose along John’s cheek briefly while he tried to lock eyes with him, his mouth curved on a smile, “Shut up. Direct me and then just hold me. I can take care of the rest,” he told him with a lighter tone to his face, eyes bright. “Quickly, I’m bursting!”

"Oh, now you're being demanding? Previously it was 'oh no, no no no, don't let fluid come from my penis’ and suddenly that's exactly what you want?" John said mockingly. "You can't make up your bloody mind!"

John put one arm under Sherlock's left underarm and across his chest, whilst his other held Sherlock's waist, and turned him toward the toilet, trying to line him up without bursting into another cascade of giggles. He was vaguely aware that his crotch was in the perfect place to rut against Sherlock's bare arse, but he shook the thought away with a hard swallow and a grimace. Sherlock’s hair tickled his nose and filled his senses with the aroma of Sherlock’s almond shampoo, heat and sweat, and John found the mixture soothing and arousing in twisting and confusing ripples.

A noise from outside the cubicle suddenly startled them, causing both men to jump and stumble, almost falling into the toilet together, as someone pounded on the door, "You two better not be bumming in there! I'll phone the police!"

“Idiot.” Was the first thing out of John’s mouth before he inhaled sharply, turned his head aside and shouted back with a glare that no one could see. "Medical emergency. I'm a doctor."

“What kind of emergency needs two men in one toilet stall?” Replied the person on the other side, whom John realised was the young lad from earlier.

Sherlock canted his hips and slowly widened his stance, trying not to slip as he did so, and growled under his breath, “I can’t go with some stranger on the other side of the door. Tell him to go away!” He squirmed, successfully rubbing his bare buttocks against John while he bounced on the balls of his feet, and bowed his head to look down as he took himself in hand.

John squeaked awkwardly, his voice breaking on a garbled word, something his vocal chords hadn’t done since he was fourteen. John cleared his throat and tried again, hoping the lad would leave, "Listen, I've just told you. It’s a medical emergency. Let me finish up and I’ll show you my bloody ID, or better still, phone the bloody police and ask for DI Lestrade if you're so interested!"

The young man behind the door seemed to confer with some of his workmates that had apparently followed him to the toilet, before grunting in acceptance and walking away. John exhaled shakily, resting his head in-between Sherlock's shoulder blades, and tapped his friend on shoulder with the hand wrapped around his front, "There you go. He's gone. Hurry up with your…business so we can go too."

Sherlock leaned back into him in response, pressing his warm body to John’s, and then shivered with a sigh as he relaxed his muscles. He had the decency to aim for the side of the toilet bowl, muffling the noise of him releasing his bladder so as to not make the situation anymore embarrassing than it already was, and moaned in pleasure lowly with a slight huff of laughter. John tried to think back, trying to pinpoint when it was that Sherlock had actually drank anything, and hoped to God that his nose wouldn’t be bombarded with another strong aroma.

"How is it that we've gone from never, ever speaking about sex, to me seeing you, hearing you, and smelling you ejaculate? – And now I’m standing behind you, beside a bag of soiled clothes, whilst you piss," John sighed. "There's never a dull moment with Sherlock Holmes."

“And you love it,” Sherlock said, turning his head as he hastily added, “Not this specifically, of course.—And, technically, there are dull moments. There have been and will be days when there will be nothing going on. Nothing but the tedious, peaceful, mundane existence that is life. Days when I’m so bored, that I want to peel the skin of my face, but…I suppose you do make it all the more bearable. You’re there, so it’s all fine.” Sherlock frowned slightly and looked up and aside at John, and then back down. “Everything is fine with you around, actually. Even this, in a way. I can’t really imagine going through what I went through on the coach, and then this, without you.”

John felt momentarily stunned by Sherlock's words and simply nodded, "I, erm... yeah, I'm glad you feel fine when I’m here. That's nice. Really nice Sherlock," John smiled warmly. "But can you hurry up and finish peeing? I really don't like being pressed up against your arse like this... not gay remember?" It had been an attempt at a joke, however it fell flat between them and he cringed as Sherlock strained to look back at him with a fleeting look of irritation. Why had he even said that? Why did he always have to bring that up? It was nervousness. Nervousness and confusion, it must be.

“No one is around, but me, and you don’t need to keep reminding me of something that you express and exclaim on an almost daily basis, John,” Sherlock said with a hard tone, his arms flexing as he shook himself and even reached over quickly to nab some toilet paper, drying his skin, before he threw it into the bowl, closed the lid and flushed the toilet. “Done. Happy? You can turn me around and let me go now, Mr I’m-not-gay.”

"Whoa. Alright. I was only saying," John huffed, helping Sherlock to wash his hands in the sink. "Just trying to break the weird atmosphere. It's not everyday I deal with - this -" He gestured between them clumsily. "I didn’t mean to upset you."

“You didn’t ‘upset’ me, you infuriated me. There’s a difference. A big one. You hardly ever upset me,” Sherlock told him coldly, his legs still weak but stronger than they had been when they’d struggled to get off the coach. “You play that ‘I’m not gay’ card, a little too much, and you know what they say, ‘doth protest too much.’”

John stilled, his veins turning to ice and then thundering with heat instantaneously, as he glowered at the back of Sherlock’s head and helped Sherlock sit back onto the toilet lid, grabbing for the carrier bag with the spare clothes inside, "Here get these on. I want to go home."

“As do I,” Sherlock said in a biting tone, ripping into the pack of Y-fronts and pulling one out. He looked at it in disgust for a second and then pulled it up his scarcely haired legs, lifting his hips to tug them into place and covering his genitals. The trousers were then yanked on just as sharply and he glared down at them, picking at the material and rubbing it between his fingers, as if testing its strength.

"Right, feel better? I know they're not your usual ridiculously priced ones but they'll do until we get home, yeah?" John asked, gathering the bags and kicking over Sherlock's shoes with a large hint.

Sherlock didn’t reply and bent down to slip his shoes on and tie his laces, making a tight bow with an angered jerk of his hands, “Help me up,” he ordered once he was done, flexing his legs a little and then getting up himself, waving dismissively at John whom had offered his arm. “Forget it. I’m fine.”

John sighed tightly and opened up the door to the toilet, checking either side of it, happy to note that they were alone as he exited the loo and turned to look at Sherlock, "Looks like everyone’s gone back to not working."

Sherlock took a step, another, and then stumbled and tripped on the third, colliding with John’s side. He leant on John heavily and he craned his head to peer around, “Good. Let’s go. I hate it here.”

John turned, realised how close they were standing by the puff of Sherlock's breath sweeping across his face, and straightened his spine in a fluster, pushing forward in a steady march and hoping to leave the supermarket with what little dignity remained. Sherlock followed behind and delved into one of the bags for the sweets, still wobbling and unsteady as he looked around and took longer and longer strides, knocking into John’s arm several times when he opened the packet. He pushed a whole handful of skittles into his mouth, holding them out to John at the last moment. The gesture oddly soothed and mollified John and he gave a warm-hearted smile with a playful wink, throwing a green sweet into the air and catching with his mouth. 

Blinking with a curving of his mouth, Sherlock laughed, and paused a moment to shake out one of his legs, “This is ridiculous – Surely having multiple orgasms in one day shouldn’t make my legs feel like they don’t belong to me,” he said in a sulky mumble around a cheek full of skittles. “Although, I suppose I was constantly stimulated by that damn vibration. And I was sitting down for a long period of time. Not to mention I was cramped— You know, I find it slightly unfair that there are no seats specifically for people with long legs…”

"Yes, you're practically disabled. We should write an angry letter," John cheeked as he chuckled and shook his head. "I'm surprised your bollocks weren't numb from the vibrations, mine were. You must be very sensitive to things like that."

“They were a bit,” Sherlock admitted as he tripped over his own feet again with a scoff, falling into John’s shoulder and stumbling a little further. “All right. Wait, wait a second…stupid…bloody…legs--Hold me!”

"Do you want me to throw you over my shoulder? Or carry you bridal style?" John huffed, already wrapping his arms around Sherlock's waist and half supported him through the entry doors toward the taxi rank, ignoring the stares from the staff that looked on suspiciously. None of them stopped Sherlock and John, but they all shot them disgusted glances, with wrinkled noses and tensed and crumpled mouths.

Sherlock, apparently noticing the homophobic-like stares, shot them the darkest of his glares in response and slipped his arm around John’s shoulders, cupping and stroking his neck and jaw with a defiantly arched brow. He popped more skittles into his mouth and then flashed the staff a condescending smile as they left, incredibly amused and content when they all reacted in a wave of revulsion.

John allowed Sherlock to continually caress his face whilst they walked, but stopped beside the trolley port with an arched eyebrow, "And what exactly was that about?" he asked, his skin thrumming warmly. "You made it seem like we were lovers."

“Obviously,” Sherlock smirked with a smug tone, taking another handful of skittles and then stretching his legs, testing their strength. Amused and hot under the collar, John watched Sherlock chew, frustratingly tickled when the detective glanced back to make sure the staff were still looking before he slapped John’s backside with entertainment. Sherlock seemed to relish in the shocked hop from John and the accumulated gasps behind them and his smirk grew a little wider, a little more playful. “Come, John. I want to go home and possibly sleep for three days…no, make that four. Yes. Four days.”

"You did that to annoy me as well as them, didn’t you? – This is about before, with the ‘not gay’ thing, isn’t it?" John grumbled, shooting a half-hearted scowl at the overly innocent expression that Sherlock turned to him in reply. "You massive git. I'll leave you here if you carry on. And you can sleep in a trolley to get felt up by the regular loitering tramps."

Sherlock stretched his legs again and turned to offer John some more skittles, “Been there, done that. – And they don’t exactly feel you up in a sexual way, it’s more a thieving way, really.”

John snorted and let Sherlock link arms with him, walking them down the road toward the waiting cabs, "I can't imagine you in a trolley. I'm tempted to pick you up and dump you in one, just to see."

Sherlock laughed heartily, “Don’t you dare,” he told him around the sweets in his mouth, rubbing his thigh and then fingering the fabric of the trousers again, as if he liked the way they felt between his fingernails and skin.

"Stop touching yourself, you deviant," John teased, suddenly feeling dizzy and slightly giddy in Sherlock's presence for reasons unknown. "I would ask 'where's the weirdest place you've ever wanked?' But I’m pretty sure on the train and in front of your best mate is pretty weird in itself." John grinned.

“Definitely,” Sherlock agreed, bumping friendlily into John as they walked. “If I had done that of course, which I have not. – There was no ‘wanking’ involved, John. So that question is redundant and has no connection to what’s happened to me.”

John sighed, “Yes. All right. I get it.” 

“Although,” Sherlock shot John an impish look, “when I was a teenager, around fifteen, I sort of, kind of, did it in one of those butterfly gardens. Stratford Butterfly Farm, to be exact…just a little bit of touching. Which is rather weird, what with the butterflies…”

"Oh my God – Did you spunk on a butterfly?" John gaped with a snorting kind of snigger, bending over and then laughing excessively. "I have this sudden image of a butterfly flying in a confused arc because it’s weighed down with your man juice. A little like a WW2 pilot shouting, 'Tally ho!' As it falls to the floor." John wiped his teary eyes. "Christ. I must be so tired, because that’s the funniest thing I've ever imagined…"

“Well, I didn’t finish, if you must know. I couldn’t climax with such a large audience,” Sherlock told him through his own chuckles, using his hands and face to describe the scene comically. “It was like they were silently judging me. Judging butterflies. – Landing on me and seemingly staring. And I was slightly afraid they’d be drawn by the scent of it somehow. Try and eat it or something. Which only made it more weird, because I did…consider doing so for experiment purposes.”

"I’m not surprised they judged you, you pervert," John wheezed around more laughter, trying to control himself as he flicked away amused tears. "I've never done it in that many weird places myself... cinema, pub toilet… Though I did once get sucked off on one of those cliché open topped London tour buses." John smiled at the memory. "God that was an experience and a half."

“Hm. A cold experience, I’d wager,” Sherlock huffed as he grabbed John’s arm and dragged him over to a cab with sudden impatience, piling John into the backseat and then sitting forward to give their address to the somewhat startled cabbie.

John sat back and placed Sherlock’s bag to the floor before turning to his friend, "Of course it was cold yeah. – Anyways... we can talk about it when we get home. Not suitable for cabs this conversation. Not really suitable full stop. No idea why I even started it. - Christ all I want to do once we get there is have a nice hot cuppa and go to bed."

“Just bed for me. In fact, I may fall asleep on the way,” Sherlock warned John as he extended out his legs and dropped his head back with a long, drawn-out sigh, his eyes fluttering. He yawned then, as if on cue, his hand and arm brushing John’s. 

"Don't even think about falling asleep you git," John complained, letting his hand fall into the space between their bodies, where their fingers touched. There was a tingling spark of something up John’s spine at the connection, but he ignored it. 

“Why not?” Sherlock murmured, pretending to already be falling asleep with a quirk of his mouth, his hand bumping John’s own lightly in response. “I’ve not slept for…five days? Six? At any rate, I’m tired. The case is done. My work is done. I want to sleep and sulk. It’s routine.” 

"Sleep and sulk at home. Where I don't have to carry you," John insisted as he found himself running his thumb across the skin on Sherlock's knuckles softly and on instinct alone. He gazed out of the window quickly, refusing to look at Sherlock. What was he doing?

Sherlock’s hand twitched in reaction and then smoothly pushed into the caress, “Mm. I can’t promise anything. I was flagging before we even got on the coach…then what happened, happened, and I’m even more exhausted because of it. – And still quite humiliated too. Only a smidgen though. I think it was worse the first time…what with being naked,” he said, his words low, too low for the cab driver to hear. Thank God.

"Well... Don't be embarrassed," John soothed, feeling his heart pick up. "It was...yeah it was weird but it's not the end of the world. We're both men of science right?" John grinned and nudged Sherlock with his elbow, trying not to think of why he wanted to put more of his body to Sherlock’s own. This was stupid. Being so sexually frustrated was apparently exceedingly bad. "But seriously.... consider letting out steam more often yeah? It'll get you in trouble eventually."

Sherlock pulled a face, his eyes all but closed, “Tedious. I have better things to be doing,” he stated, turning his head a little to look at John. “It’s only just started happening. That part of my body has been dormant for years. I got the occasional morning surprise, but I left it alone.”

"You've got some amazing willpower then," John murmured, continuing to stroke Sherlock's hand, unable to stop. He looked down with a twinge in his gut when he moved to caress the thin skin of Sherlock's wrist without thinking. He should stop. "I can hardly wake up before mine is in my hand…"

“Mm,” Sherlock hummed with a sigh, his facial features slacking as his head drooped and his lips parted. “I have tremendous willpower—and brainpower, don’t forget about that.”

"Yes, you're a genius," John whispered with a huff and a smile, "Willpower and mind power ... All the power." Giggling at his own sleepiness, John counted Sherlock’s pulse, happy with its strong and steady thumping.

“More powerful with you by my side though…” Sherlock breathed, his words almost completely inaudible since his head had slid down the seat. He tensed and jerked it back up, his eyes blinking, but ultimately he huffed and slumped, dropping on John’s shoulder in instant slumber. 

John turned his head, mindful to keep the slightly frizzed curls from his eyes as he looked over at his friend. Sherlock looked so young and vulnerable. John felt his heart suddenly clench at the thought of Sherlock being so utterly touch starved that even the rumbles of a bus engine could cause his orgasm. How could Sherlock be so unfamiliar and distant from sexual arousal and stimulation? And what suddenly started it back up? All this time, all these years, and there had been nothing, not even a hint, until one hot summers day. How could a hot day break his steadfast resolve and control? 

The older man shimmied his arm around Sherlock's shoulder with a quiet sigh and allowed the lean man to snuggle against his chest, before taking a deep, and hopefully subtle, inhale of his hair. It was hard to resist the protective flare and throb of affection, even harder with Sherlock unaware of it, and so John let it take him over for a bit, pressing a soft and gentle kiss on the crown of his head reflexively. 

"Bless ‘im. Must ‘ave been up t’ a lot t’ be tha’ exhausted," the cabbie smiled into the rear-view mirror. "Seems comfortable enough though. Good thing he ‘as you there fer ‘im, eh?"

"Hm." John responded with a tight smile feeling the worrying sensations in his stomach blooming at the look the driver was shooting him and the raising doubts and anxieties from the days events.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock paced around the room with his hands behind his back, stopped, and went around it again backwards, pausing by one of the windows, looking up, and then bending to inspect the windowsill. Lestrade watched him with a confused but resigned expression on his face, and folded his arms, waiting with his eyebrows lifted when Sherlock turned around. The lanky git said nothing and instead stepped up to the body, dropped to a crouch, then onto his hands and knees with his backside in the air, and crawled along the floor to examine the victim’s legs. It was almost comical the way he moved about, all long, slender, flexible limbs and darting, glinting eyes. Each crime scene ended up with Sherlock folded into a new, ridiculous position over some clue or some poor dead body, and John couldn’t seem to keep his eyes from the lines of Sherlock’s back and arse as he shifted and flexed. Was he always so… promiscuous?

“Any time now, Sherlock,” Lestrade said with a sigh.

“Hm,” Sherlock hovered over the victims back and put his face so close to the pallid, slack skin that Lestrade looked away with a muttering wince.

"Sherlock," John warned with a grimace. "Let’s not get too close to the corpses until we know the cause of death yeah? We talked about this."

Sherlock sniffed loudly, inhaling the scent of the cadaver and then jumped to his feet to walk around the other side, bending and tilting his head, “Hm,” he replied, obviously not paying any attention to anyone as per usual.

"Eau d'corpse," Lestrade grinned at John, sharing a laugh and simply watching Sherlock work.

“John,” Sherlock abruptly called, gesturing for John with an impatient wave of his hand. “Tell me what you think.”

"You're a twat?" John replied, unable to resist. "Oh, you mean about the corpse?" He grinned at Sherlock before crouching by the body and looking it up and down. “Victim looks to be in his mid 50's, within normal weight and height but there's the looseness to the skin, which suggests that he used to weigh a lot more. He's naked, obviously, and by the look of his penis, it seems as though he died during either coitus or masturbation. Coupled with the semen on his stomach, genitals and headboard it's likely that he wasn’t alone. – And looking at the body I can't see any visible cause of death, yet his eyes do show haemorrhages, which may point towards erotic asphyxiation." John concluded looking up at Lestrade and then Sherlock. "Did I miss anything?"

Sherlock, who had been staring at him with an expression crossed between surprise and pride, suddenly smiled at him in approval, though it fell when he looked at Lestrade, his eyes narrowing and his face turning sharp in frustration, “Almost spot on, John. The man had indeed died during sexual activity—Over by the window, in fact, where he was tied and hanged by the beam above it for sexual gratification. How do I know this? Simple, his ejaculate is smeared on the windowsill. Something Anderson didn’t notice when searching the room, because he’s an idiot. He somehow failed to notice that everything around that area had been cleaned, but for the edge of the sill, where our victim’s DNA remains,” Sherlock said, pointing and then turning sideways to pace as he spoke, too focused on his confident explanation to notice Lestrade’s eyes unexpectedly widen at the conspicuous and prominent bulge at Sherlock’s crotch. Something that went unnoticed by the detective. John flushed and quickly opened his mouth to speak, though Sherlock cut him down with the rest of his deductions. “He wasn’t alone, just as John stated, in fact, at least three more people were present. They were all amateurs, evidently, because the man died in their care, but they did get him down and placed him on the bed. -- I know there had been more than one person present, because of what John so rightfully pointed out. That the man had been heavier, and although he had lost almost half the weight, he is still a broad and hefty gentleman, so it would have had to take at least three to four people to lift and carry him to the bed. Now, the reason why they didn’t report this is most likely due to the fact that they don’t want their little, dirty secrets out and possibly because they were all strangers to one another and—What? Why are you looking at me like that, Lestrade?”

Lestrade cleared his throat and looked to John, grateful that he had seen what he had and would save Sherlock’s dignity by dealing with the issue. John cleared his throat in symmetry and stood, taking Sherlock by the arm, "Come here a sec, I need to… talk to you," John whispered and started to lead Sherlock from the room, but the idiot dug his heels in.

“What? No,” Sherlock frowned, pulling his arm back and gazing intently into John’s face, then over to Lestrade’s with confusion, noticing the way Lestrade was avoiding all eye contact him and in the process of stifling a grimaced sort of grin. “What? What is it?”

"Christ sake—Sherlock," John hissed. "Your trousers!"

Sherlock blinked, “My…trousers?” he repeated, the crease between his brows deep and only getting deeper the more he stared at John. He shook his head in angry bewilderment. “What?”

"Oh for..." John groaned, scrubbing his face and hair in frustration. Why was this happening? "Sherlock... you have... a protuberance."

“A protuberance,” Sherlock echoed slowly before his entire face smoothed out in realisation and he straightened, glancing down awkwardly as he closed his coat with a self-conscious shift of his eyes. “Oh. I…have no idea why that’s happened…”

"Yeah," John muttered scratchily. "Do you—Shall we go somewhere? For you to...deal with it?"

Sherlock leant down to John, “Did you really just suggest that I should deal with it, now?” he murmured. “At a crime scene? With a naked man on a king sized bed covered in—Oh. Oh I see. Lestrade thinks I got aroused by the dead body, doesn’t he?”

"There is a small... okay... a fairly large chance that yeah, he thinks you got a bonk on over a corpse," John grinned before pulling it back to stoic at the look Sherlock shot him. "Want me to talk to him? I'll tell him you have a horrific medical condition if you like?"

Shaking his head, Sherlock rolled his eyes and turned to look over his shoulder, raising his voice to garner the Inspector’s attention, “I have not got an erection because of it, you idiot,” he said loudly, his booming voice dipping with annoyance. It only made Lestrade’s half stifled grin curl broader. “Do you honestly think I’d get turned on by that bloated corpse, or by this tedious case? You didn’t even need me. It’s so blatantly obvious, Lestrade!”

"Smooth Sherlock," John grumbled and rubbed his face again, closing his eyes for a few seconds to count to ten. "Are we done here then? Home? Yeah?"

“Yes,” Sherlock nodded, buttoning his coat deftly. “I’m done. All the evidence is at hand, this was barely a three!” He smiled condescendingly at Lestrade and then span on his heel and strode out without looking back or even waiting for John. As per usual. Would things ever change? Did he even want them to?

"You heard him," John sighed as he jogged past Lestrade, trying to think up an excuse for what the man had witnessed but failing miserably. "Sorry mate he's a bit...uh…tense at the moment." Lestrade nodded with a snort and a shake of his head, looking dumbstruck and oddly entertained as John left.

Sherlock had already flagged down a cab and was paused the open door, waiting until John was a few feet closer and shuffling inside, looking out at him with unneeded impatience, “Come on, John!”

"Yeah. Alright, alright. Like you enjoy to point out, I've only got little legs," John groused as he climbed in to look over at his friend. "So...what was that all about?"

“What?” Sherlock asked and then slipped forward to give their address to the cab driver again, his face tight and his jaw snapping shut after every word. When he sat back he sighed and shrugged, gesturing with one hand. “It was simple. I can’t believe Lestrade needed my help with that. I made doubly sure of my deductions, of course, because I’ve not had a case for so long now. I spent more time than I normally would on such a mind-numbing case, but I couldn’t very well magically create more evidence than what was already there! Even you saw it all. One look at the body and you knew that—” He cut himself short and blinked, then shifted with a gentle frown.

John waited for him to continue, to finish what he had been saying, but when nothing more was forthcoming, he huffed, "Even I saw it, eh? Me being an idiot, you mean. Yeah, thanks for that," John rolled his eyes. "But no, that’s not what I mean, I wasn’t talking about the temper tantrum, I was asking about the...y'know..." He tried to find a subtle and delicate way to mime an erection, but couldn’t find one. God this was already so familiar.

It took a moment for Sherlock to respond, having been staring off into the middle distance, and he looked at John, eyes dropping to John’s hand gesture, “Oh. I…I don’t know. Does it matter?”

"Well," John started, licking his bottom lip agitatedly, not exactly in the mood to retell or relive the past. It had been another month since the last ‘incident.’ An incident he wasn’t up for naming as he was positive it would either make him blush or laugh. "The first time was the heat, apparently, and the second was the… vibrations of the bus, right? But what about this time... there were no...outstanding features. What happened? What brought it on?"

Sherlock shrugged and glanced down, making sure he was covered and then peeking down inside his coat to idly check, “Yes, well. The male penis does that from time to time, does it not? Wasn’t it you who told me that, ‘they have a mind of their own,’ the first time this…happened?”

"Yeah. Yeah I suppose," John agreed, not liking how alike their conversations on this were becoming. He sat silently, looking out of the window as London passed by, and then gritted his teeth. Might as well ask the inevitable. "Have you been... taking care of it or are you still ignoring your bodily needs?"

“I told you, I’m sexually abstinent,” Sherlock told him and then sighed, jaw set in an obvious sneering sulk. “What would you have me do? Masturbate daily in the shower and my bedroom, like you do? Sometimes more so?” Sherlock dropped his hand between them to push on the seat as he altered his position and it brushed John lightly in the process. “I don’t think I could, even if I wanted to. – I can’t…do it, all right? I can’t clear my mind. I can’t focus on the task, because I’m so focused on…everything else! I can never let go. Masturbation is a chore for me. I don’t enjoy it. That’s why I vowed to stop doing it when I turned seventeen. It wasn’t worth the trouble.”

John checked the driver to ensure he couldn’t hear before leaning in closer, his breath ghosting against Sherlock's ear and disrupting the small, soft, coiled curls there. "Have you tried, you know, watching porn? Or erotic stories? Or... there's always fantasies and your imagination. Something to stop the whirlwind of your mind?"

Sherlock shook his head, “It doesn’t work. Not with me. I start to think of something else,” he replied, turning to look at John up close. “I watch porn and I’m deducing things about the actors. Even naked I see things on them, see clues of what they did prior to the job. I see their entire history laid out before me sometimes. Not to mention the history of the set or the room they’re in.” He tilted his head and continued, upturning a flippant hand. “I get bored with erotic stories because it’s all so…illogical and fancy and downright incorrect. Too _arty_. Things are so perfect, so smooth and beautiful, glistening and dazzling on every page, with every word. Frankly, it’s nauseating—Now, as for my imagination, well, I think of so many things at once that I just get distracted.”

"Right, okay," John nodded, lost in thought for a moment. "This might sound weird and over stepping a million and on boundaries, but, really, when don’t we do that? – What if... what if we watched it together? The, um, the porn. Would that help? Whenever you get overwhelmed you can talk to me? It might help you...get used to it and relax into it? Once you get it all out in the open, had an audience, maybe then you’ll be able to focus on what is actually happening in the videos? I help you with deductions sometimes, with focus, with cases, perhaps I can, in some way, help you with…this. Give you a little…push. Then when you think you can do it without me, you can go do it on your own and… ‘enjoy’ yourself – I don’t know. God…God, that’s probably a stupid idea. Forget I said anything…"

“Fine. If it will shut you up, then I’ll do it. We can try it, but I doubt it’ll help,” Sherlock mumbled with a quirk of his mouth. “I’ll just be impressing you with the amount of information I know about someone by a close up of their genitals and nothing more. And there is a lot to know about a person via their genitals. More than you think.”

"You always impress me regardless," John rolled his eyes and nudged Sherlock. "Fine. Let’s, uh, give it a try. Lets just... get home. I'll make tea. You can't have a plan without tea. It's the British way."

“Tea and porn,” Sherlock said, giving John a sideways glance and a smirk, the corners of his eyes crinkled.

"The breakfast of champions," John chuckled, thankful when the cabbie finally pulled up at the kerb to Baker St. John paid and climbed out, leaving Sherlock in the car for once as he opened the black door and held it open. What was he doing? What was he even thinking?

Sherlock shuffled awkwardly out with a wince, shut the cab door behind him and strolled by John with a lingering look, a brush of his shoulder and then half his chest, “I might want a coffee instead of a cuppa. Thanks,” he said before bounding up the stairs after hanging up his scarf and coat, and disappearing into his bedroom.

Slowly, with a throb of his pulse, John followed him, shaking his head as he toed off his shoes and padded into the kitchen to flick on the kettle and prepare the drinks. He hummed softly to himself, trying to ignore the flutter in his stomach and the sweat on his palms, and how stupid this whole plan was. He was seriously considering telling Sherlock that he’d been joking and he needed to go out, and that he couldn’t watch porn at 10am on a Wednesday morning with his flatmate who had an honest to God erection problem. He stirred the drinks instead and took them into the living room, putting them on the coffee table, and chose to sit on the sofa, leaving a gap at his right for Sherlock. Where they really going to do this? John had watched porn with friends before, for a laugh, but this wasn’t that. This was completely different. What had he been thinking?

When Sherlock returned he slipped down next to John with a sigh, John’s own laptop in his hands, which he offered it over, “Best use yours,” he said, taking a sip of coffee and licking his lips as he slumped back lazily, the crotch of his trousers still obscenely tented. “You have most of these deviant and popular sites bookmarked.”

John couldn’t help the grin that stretched his face and shook his head. Of course Sherlock had his laptop, when didn’t he? John had been looking for it for a day and a half. Opening and turning it on, he typed in his password, opened his private browser, and typed his favourite porn website into the search bar, "Am I looking for anything in particular?...Anything you want to watch? Erm... two...men for example?"

Sherlock waved a dismissive hand in John’s direction, taking another gulp of coffee before he spoke, “Choose whichever,” he muttered, peering at the screen and roaming his bored gaze over the website as it loaded. “I have no preference at this time.”

John clicked around before deciding on a video of an amateur couple. The female was exactly what John would normally look for, curvy and dark haired, whereas the man was tall, lean and ginger. John awkwardly put the laptop down on the nearby coffee table, enlarged the video, tilted the screen, and sat back, "Just er... relax…"

“All right,” Sherlock chuckled and cradled his coffee as he watched, his head tilted more towards John than the laptop as he sighed and frowned, pursing his lips in distaste.

John felt himself thrumming with nervous energy, feeling almost trapped by Sherlock's heat pressed against his side and so he cleared his throat, shuffling further into the sofa, eyes fixed on the video. It oddly reminded him of the army. There had been many a mutual wanking session, where occasionally some men would get hold of some porn and the rest would gather around, first in friendly amusement, but all too long it turned to something else. Silently they’d all masturbate together. John had been witness to a few of them, and even thought about joining, but something had always taken up his time. He’d always chosen another thing to occupy his mind with. John didn’t imagine that Sherlock would be willing to sit in quiet contemplation.

Sherlock watched for another few moments and then looked away, “Nope,” he said, popping the ‘P’ rather dramatically. “Next.”

John pushed aside the disappointment, he had actually been enjoying the video, and so made a mental note to come back to it when Sherlock wasn’t home as he went back to the main menu and scrolled through. He found one of a young man masturbating in front of the camera and looked at Sherlock, trying to read his expression, before shrugging and starting the video up. It couldn’t hurt to try after all, right? God this was so stupid.

Finishing his coffee in the next three large gulps, something that should have scalded the back of his throat, Sherlock put down his mug and pressed his fingers together under his chin to watch intently. He looked somewhat intrigued with a tilted head, and after another minute of the video, he sat forward, squinted, then tilted his head the opposite side, turning and twisting oddly before he sat back and blinked.

“I think I know him,” he muttered, pointing with his fingers, making an annoyed sound when the camera was turned and the man eagerly thrust up into his fist. “I think that—Yes. Wait, no. Oh, _yes_! Yes. He’s the young fellow in the cake shop a few streets over.”

John blinked and stared at the young man, there wasn’t much of his face showing, just his chin tiny bottom of his lip, and so John hoped that Sherlock only knew the bloke by the shape of his fingers, or the jut of his wrist bones. He turned to Sherlock and snorted, "I hope he washes his hands before handling those cakes then... So, next video?"

“Yes,” Sherlock told him, stretching his torso and nudging further into John’s side. “Pick something… _creative_. If there is such a thing.”

John smirked, “You have no idea,” he whispered under his breath. He leaned over to quickly type in the search and clicked on a video he had seen before, starting it up instantly. A woman was clad in black latex and had a man strung up to the wall with various ropes whilst she whipped him. She stopped, smiled at the camera, and lifted up a burning candle before pouring the liquid over the man's cock and bollocks, then giving it a brief slap as she turned away. "Creative enough?"

Sherlock’s eyebrow twitched, but nothing more, “Interesting, to say the least…” he mumbled and trailed off into silence, watching with rapt attention, and even leaning forwards when the woman pinched and twisted the man’s nipples. Sherlock seemed to be making notes in his head by the looks of things, his fingers twitching and his mouth pursing lightly, and John wasn’t sure if he should be happy about that or extremely suspicious. He leaned back beside John silently after ten seconds more of the video, and watched it till the end without comment.

"So...did that, uh, do anything?" John asked carefully, refusing to look down and check Sherlock's crotch for any evidence. He’d not squirmed or moaned or gasped or grimaced in pleasure like he had before. John shouldn’t remember such things so vividly, he really shouldn’t.

“I wasn’t aroused by it, no,” Sherlock told him, slumping further down until his head rolled and knocked into John’s shoulder. “Next.”

John clicked back with a few slow exhales and began to look through the many pages of videos until he thankfully found one, which piqued his interest. A young man was receiving a blowjob from a buxom blonde, whilst another man thrust into her vagina. Getting quickly invested in it, John groaned low and almost inaudibly, as the angles changed. The camera panned around and the woman pulled her mouth off the overly thick erection, trailing a strand of spit from her lips, as she looked up wantonly. John's cock was definitely interested in proceedings after that, and realising that it was a bit -not good - in his own words to just pull out his cock and wank right then and there, whilst trying to help his friend, he subtly moved his hand, inch by inch, until his palm was over his crotch. He felt the hardened shaft twitch ever bigger with an incessant ache and slowly began grinding the hand down to ease it.

Sherlock was quiet beside him for half a second and then grunted softly and shifted, sitting up a little straighter and grabbing the sofa beneath him in a white-knuckled grip. He was breathing hard already, his cheeks flushed, and his eyes fluttered around the room before he swallowed thickly, squeezing them shut. When he opened them again, he cleared his throat and tried to look casual, his hands moving to rest too casually on his thighs. Well, that was certainly an interesting development. Maybe this plan was actually working? John refused to look between his friend’s legs to fully check, but he didn’t think he needed to. That blatant reaction was enough. Definitely enough. No need for more.

John forced the thick saliva in his mouth down the back of his throat as subtly as he could muster and continued stroking himself just as secretly while he turned to Sherlock and smiled warmly, "Looks like we've found something you like, then. Finally," John said triumphantly, strangely proud of himself for getting the elusive and aloof Sherlock to enjoy pornography for the first time. He gave himself another few cheeky touches and then slapped his hands down on his know with a loud exhale. "I’ll, um, leave you to it then – Think I might have a shower while you’re, uh, ‘busy.’ Though maybe you should move it into your bedroom rather than out here in the open, yeah?"

“What?” Sherlock asked, looking bewildered as he lifted his gaze and coughed the thick, husky sound from his voice. “ _No_. No, it’s not the video. I don’t even know what we’re watching…” He blinked at the screen, trying to focus, his entire body shaking uncontrollably, but very slightly, as he cleared his throat again.

John frowned in confusion, "I… don't understand?"

“I don’t like it,” Sherlock told him once he’d finally taken stock of what was playing in the video. “Next.”

“…But you were just—”

“ _Next._ ”

John stared at Sherlock a moment, taking in the man’s rosy cheeks, fidgeting fingers, trembling thighs, and shook his head, “Look, Sherlock, clearly you’re—”

“I said, _next._ ”

Grumbling at, apparently, being unable to find something to suit the detective's needs, John flicked through more of the videos at greater speed until he finally stumbled upon a gay porn, which looked half decent quality. John took a deep breath, started it up, and sat a little further back.

A bald man was aggressively fingering a blond, small, and thinly built man over the edge of a bed. The bald man was whispering filth into the other man's ear, something that seemed to immediately catch John's attention. Dirty talk was entertaining, if a little sexy, if done right. John listened to the half growled words, finding a few amusing, while others caused his ears to flush hot. He’d not heard most of them before. Was dirty talk really so different between straight and gay porn? The blond man pushed back onto the stout, glistening fingers thrusting into him eagerly and groaned with a wanton and blissful expression, biting down on his bottom lip. God, even the sex faces seemed different. His pleasure looked almost real.

The thought of it being so, of John watching someone actually getting off on being buggered with another man’s fingers, whilst the man said the most dirty, depraved, and creative things in his willing ear, made the entire act of watching the video with Sherlock, suddenly different. The blond even looked a little familiar. His body slim, lean, and beautifully arched. John could see the muscles of his back and backside flex, could see the tendons and veins in his neck bulge, the pale skin of his face flush darker. He looked a little like Sherlock. John looked over at Sherlock in that moment from the corner of his eyes, wondering if he saw the similarities too, but found himself almost unable to fully concentrate. The sounds from the laptop, the sight of the blond’s body, of his mouth, his skin, his twisting torso, it was becoming a little overwhelming. This had been a bad idea.

“Do you like this?” Sherlock asked him after two minutes of vibrating tension stretched out between them. His voice was shaking and rough, catching in his throat, and thick with obvious arousal, and it was only when he shifted position beside John, bumping arms with him, that John realised he had replaced his hand over himself. John was once again touching himself. Gripping tight and rubbing instinctively around his sensitive glans.

"It's..." John licked his lips and gave a half shrug, trying to act natural, trying to stop his hand. "It’s alright... I suppose... you know, if you like this sort of thing, that is." John quickly bit down on a raising groan and tensed with sudden panic as a trickle of pre-ejaculate dripped from the end of his cock into his pants. "I... I'm only doing this for you—Watching this, I mean. I’m only _watching_ this for you."

When he had gathered the confidence to look, John found Sherlock staring at him with dark eyes, and then he huffed with a barely stifled moan, jerking and tensing beside him, “Oh. _Oh_ _no_ …I need to…” he said hoarsely, and tried to get up to leave, but his knees buckled and instead he ended up gripping John’s thigh and curving over his own shaking legs with a frenzied bucking of his hips and a muttered curse. “Ah! Oh, _God_ , it’s happening again…already…I don’t…I can’t…this can’t be normal…”

"Jesus," John breathed, inadvertently brushing Sherlock's face and curls with his tea-scented breath when the man tilted his head towards John in reply. "Sherlock... just... _bloody hell,_ " John groaned at the look on Sherlock’s face, at the fact he was so close to orgasm again, at the sounds echoing from his laptop, and pressed down on himself hard. The pressing touch became more the instant he did it and he pushed on his erection harder and faster, incapable of stopping now that he’d started. This was bad. This was not what he was meant to do. He’d not done this before. "Hold it, try and hold it Sherlock. Breathe yeah? Just…breathe and…go to your…room…this wasn’t the…the plan!"

Frantically, Sherlock tried to grip himself through his trousers, but whined and cried out hoarsely, arching his hips high off the sofa with a low and husky groan, “John…I… _can’t_ …stop it. You… _you_ were just…and I—” he said between another groan, rutting into the air tautly with a grimace and a wet gasp.

He looked down when the noticeable line of his penis twitched, pulsing so forcefully that it shifted the strained fabric of his crotch, and whined in shame. Since his erection was squashed uncomfortable upwards at an odd angle from how he’d been sitting, the first thick spurt of ejaculate dampened the hem of Sherlock’s trousers in a dark bloom of moisture. Sherlock scrabbled to pull his shirt out of the way, yanking it from where it had been neatly tucked, and whimpered when the next spurt escaped his waistband to splatter up his tensing stomach.

"Oh _Jesus_ , Sherlock," John outwardly heard himself groan, one hand moving to cover his eyes as the other shoved, almost with a mind of its own, onto and along his crotch. It took only a few more moments of clumsy stroking before he followed Sherlock into climax. John gasped and coughed with the force of it, shaking as he painted the inside of his underwear and trousers with what felt like a weeks worth of ejaculate. He grimaced, grabbing the sofa to hold on tightly, and opened his eyes a fraction. "Oh... _Oh shit_. Shit. Shit, shit, shit—I'm sorry, that was… not supposed to happen. That was bad of me. I don’t…even know…how this happened. Shit. Are you ok?"

Sherlock slumped down slowly and elbowed the back of the sofa angrily, “Stop asking me that!” he snapped, looking humiliated as he panted heavily. He avoided John’s gaze as he got composed, evening out his breathing and stopping the shaking in his legs, and then pushed himself to his feet with a huff. “…I need to…clean up…”

"Yeah... yeah, sorry. Just... I…we…right. Shower then yeah? Probably best to head for a shower—You go first and er... I’ll go after," John grimaced at the discomfort between his legs, feeling a lot of extra sympathy for his friend now that they were in the same boat. "Are we, um, alright? I mean... you're not annoyed at me or…or anything?"

“No, you idiot,” Sherlock said, fondness layered in thick as he glanced at John and peeked down at John’s crotch, shifting on his feet. John felt oddly exposed. “Probably best we call this a failure and rule out trying the erotic stories.”

John flushed though couldn’t help but chuckle awkwardly, "Yeah, probably. – Oh, and, uh, you should sleep after the shower and at least four slices of toast. You haven’t slept properly for days because of that experiment of yours." John nudged Sherlock with the side of his hand, trying to snap Sherlock out of his staring. "You go shower. I’ll make you some tea and toast. They'll be ready when you get out."

Sherlock waved flippantly at John and walked away with a grimace, holding his shirt up to keep it away from the ejaculate on his skin and trousers, “I’ll eat if I must, Doctor.”

"Yes. Good. Great." John replied, pulling himself from the sofa with his own grimace to walk to the kitchen. "I'm tempted to start giving you a half of an orange like footballers do at half time. Keep your energy up."

“Shut it,” Sherlock smirked as he wandered to the bathroom, his gaze lingering on John for longer than needed, head tilted and fingers twitching.

John felt his heart twinge, his gut twist, and listened to Sherlock closing the door behind him. Things just got a lot worse, didn’t they? Brilliant. Fantastic. The plan was not a good one.

**Author's Note:**

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